


Resident Patient

by MindYourOwnBismuth



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Crime Scenes with Dead Bodies, Eventual Johnlock, First Time, Fluff, Gratuitous Depictions of Drug Usage, Greg is Concerned, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, Homage to Sir ACD's Adventure of the Resident Patient, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Minor OC Death, Murder, Original Characters - Freeform, Rimming, Sort of a Slow Burn?, Therapy, Virgin Sherlock, casefic, john is a therapist, lots of references, mentions of drug abuse, sherlock is sassy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2018-10-28 23:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 128,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10841280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindYourOwnBismuth/pseuds/MindYourOwnBismuth
Summary: John is a therapist. Sherlock is forced into an appointment by Greg.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first installment of my first fanfic is a gift for the lovely CapturedByNoodles; one of my best friends and greatest motivators. Go and give her and her fantastic works some love.
> 
> I am obligated to inform you that the characters in this story are not my own creations. Thank Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the characters, and Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for the renditions of these characters we all know and love.
> 
> This story is neither beta'd nor Brit-picked. Any and all mistakes are my own.

* * *

 

“Thank you again for your time, Doctor Watson. I really appreciate it.”  
  
“Please, Ms. Winstead, call me John.” A warm, kind smile made its way onto John’s face as he extended his right hand to gently grasp that of the young woman before him. “And of course, it was a pleasure seeing you, as always,” he added, his smile holding an easy, practised charm that, without fail, made his patient’s cheeks flush the lightest shade of pink.

“Oh, you’re too sweet,” the woman replied, her lilting voice singing on a wisp of light laughter as she took her leave, exiting through the door John had moved to open for her. “Same time next week?” she inquired with a look over her shoulder.

“Same time next week,” John confirmed with a nod. “I’ll see you then. Give Fredrick my best.”

The woman’s smile was fond as she nodded to him. “I will. Thank you again.” With a final wave of farewell, she departed, making her way through the small waiting area and through the front door of the establishment.

As soon as his patient was out of sight, John allowed his shoulders to sag slightly, his eyes falling closed momentarily, the shift in demeanour betraying his fatigue. While helping people was what he’d longed to do since his primary school years, he’d never quite envisioned himself as a therapy practitioner. In fact, he hadn’t seen himself anywhere but on the battlefield, suited in a bulletproof vest, toting a British Army Browning L9A and a med kit.

His time as a member of the Royal Army Medical Corps, however, was ended preemptively by a bullet wound to his left shoulder, which rendered him unfit for duty in the Royal Army, and even left him bereft of the skills required to continue on as a surgeon, which had been his backup plan since he’d decided to enlist in the armed forces when he was in uni.

The ex-army doctor was pulled out of his ruminating by the sound of a small bell, signifying someone entering through the front door of the establishment. He looked up to see a man, his light brown hair rather overwhelmed with silver, jaw set and face hard with determination, striding towards the receptionist’s desk. The young woman sitting there looked up with a pleasant smile and the two of them began speaking, the man’s tone more hushed, and his words more hurried. John, sensing a potential walk-in, sighed silently to himself and made his way out of the office to the toilets across the hallway. Ms. Winstead had been his last scheduled appointment for the day, and while he welcomed random walk-in appointments, he needed time to regroup before he saw anyone else.

He took his time to relieve himself and then stepped to the sink, taking off the watch that decorated his wrist to set face-down on the counter and rolling the sleeves of his cream-coloured jumper up past his elbows before turning on the tap. The doctor had hardly gotten his fingertips beneath the steady stream of water when the door of the restroom opened, and a young man walked in.

John thought nothing of it - the loo was the shared property of his own practise, in conjunction with the immediate care centre it was attached to. Students were even known to stop in from time to time, especially since many of the young adults studying at Saint Bart’s had internships in the medical centre. His eyes flitted upwards momentarily to survey his own appearance, but instead of looking at his own visage, he found his eyes drawn to the figure passing behind him. A shock of dark, unruly curls stood in stark contrast to a far-too-pale face, and keen, verdigris eyes caught the reflection of his own in a sidelong glance. It was a fleeting moment, but it felt like eons to John as the corner of his own lips lifted in an automatic, friendly gesture, that was blatantly ignored as the young man looked promptly away, turned, shut himself in a stall, and was silent.

The doctor blinked at the reflection of the closed stall door before he remembered that he was washing his hands, and hastily rinsed and dried them before collecting his watch and making his way back to his office. When he returned, the man with the greying hair was notably absent, but the young woman at the desk suddenly looked about as tired as John felt.

“Walk-in?” John inquired, his exhaustion audible in his voice and visible in the small smile he offered her.

In response, the girl only nodded, her lips pursed, and continued clacking away at her keyboard, eyes locking back onto the computer monitor in front of her. John took that as a dismissal and nodded to himself as he made his way back into his humble office space, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

The office, albeit small, was homey - a deep, black cherry stained oak desk stood along one wall, upon which sat his closed laptop, a notebook and pen, and a small picture frame displaying a photo of himself along with some of his best mates from the army, decked out in their fatigues, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders as they smiled beamingly at the camera. The blinding sand of the afghan desert where his platoon had been stationed served as the backdrop for the impromptu photo shoot, and while images of the bone-dry hell that served as his home for three years brought back plenty of unpleasant memories, he couldn’t help but smile back at the men in the picture, including the younger, stronger, happier version of himself.

With a sigh, he looked away from the photograph, his eyes glancing off of the bookshelf holding a variety of educational texts, over the few framed diplomas and certificates hanging modestly on the wall by a window, and finally coming to rest on the door as a sound in the lobby caught his attention. Through the gap between the door and its frame, he saw a flurry of movement, heard aggravated voices, and decided that he best make himself comfortable in preparation for what would hopefully be his last appointment for the day. Right on cue, as he leaned back against his desk, soft footfalls signified his secretary's approach.

“John?” she asked politely in a quiet voice before pushing the door open slightly. She gave him a light, apologetic smile and a subtle nod to let him know his services were indeed required, and he nodded back as he stood up straight and came to the door, following the young girl out and in the direction of the desk.

His eyes first landed on the familiar figure of the man with the greying hair he had initially seen come in. The man’s features were distinctly more weary compared to when John had seen him earlier, but a warm smile formed on the doctor’s face nonetheless as he approached and readied himself to make his formal introduction. That was, until his attention was derailed by the sight of movement behind the haggard man.

It was the lad who had been in the loo; and he did not look the least bit pleased.

Suddenly, John had a very good idea of which of these men he was most likely seeing.

His smile returned though when he came to stand in front of the two, and he extended his hand to the older man. “Hi,” he said, “I’m John. Are we here for an intake?” His eyes flitted between the man before him, and the youth who stood sulking a few paces away.

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” the older man said, something of an Estuary accent coming through his mumbled words as he raised his own right hand to clasp John’s in a firm shake. “Well, I mean, I’m here for this one,” he said, tossing his head lightly in the direction of the young, curly-haired bloke, who scoffed and rolled his eyes dramatically in response.

“Please, you wouldn’t even be here if my _brother_ didn’t have you under his fat thumb,” the younger man spat out, his posh accent and rumbling baritone a stark contrast to the voice of the other man. The elder of the two sighed heavily, eyes pinching shut, and his mouth opened to retort, but John acted quickly.

“Well, we can sit down and talk about it-” John ignored the disgusted sound that emanated from the dark-haired man “-and see what’s going on… A little intake appointment. Quick and painless. That okay with everyone?”

The silvery-haired man nodded and gave a light-tipped smile. “Yes. Thank you. If you could just, uh, you know. Chat with him a bit. That’d be good.” The man looked down and away for a moment, but then met John’s eyes again. “The name’s Greg, by the way. If that’s important. Do I have to, you know, fill out any paperwork or anything?”

“Rachel here will actually take care of you, if you’re going to be hanging around,” he said with a nod in the young secretary’s direction, and the woman smiled politely at them both. “In the meantime,” John continued, “it was nice meeting you, Greg. I’ll, um… hullo,” he said, smile soft and kind as he peered around Greg to the very clearly annoyed young man who was staring rather pointedly at the exit. “Would you like to step into my office with me?”

“No,” the youth grumbled, arms crossing adamantly across his chest.

Greg’s entire body sagged with exasperation and his annoyance was tangible in his voice when he spoke. “Sherlock,” he groaned, sounding exhausted as he turned to look pleadingly at the younger man. “Please. I made you a deal; if you do this, I won’t go telling your brother.”

The younger man - Sherlock? - tossed his head back with an affronted scoff. “Are you really so daft as to think that Mycroft isn’t already well aware of what’s going on? I had faith in you, Lestrade. I really did.” His contemptuous tone gave away his insincerity in his last statements, however, and his brow furrowed as he suddenly took great interest in the nails of his left hand.

Greg sighed again and shot John a disbelieving, yet apologetic look. In return, John just smiled reassuringly.

“Listen,” the doctor said, taking a step closer to the young man allegedly named Sherlock. “Greg here brought you in for a reason, yeah? So let’s make a deal. Come into my office for, let’s say… five minutes. If you absolutely hate me, then you can walk out saying you gave it a shot, and you can confidently say it didn’t work for you. Five minutes is all I ask. Of course, I can’t force you, but I think Greg is concerned about something and I’d hate to have had the both of you make the trip here for nothing at all,” he reasoned, and waited patiently as he watched the younger man consider his offer.

After a few long moments, the dark-haired man looked up at John, and the doctor could feel the man surveying him with his keen eyes. “Five minutes?” he asked, after what felt like an eternity.

John smiled softly and nodded. “Five minutes,” he confirmed.

The young man glanced at Greg, then at the door to John’s office, then back at John. Then, in a motion so fleeting John nearly missed it, the corner of the youth’s lips quirked up in a borderline playful smirk. “Clock starts now then, Doctor,” he said as he moved suddenly, striding quickly past John and into the small office.

John barely had time to turn and watch him enter the room, and looked just in time to see the young man drop inelegantly into one of the chairs, sinking in and making himself right at home. The doctor looked back at Greg, who merely rolled his eyes and turned to the receptionists desk to chat with Rachel, and John decided he’d leave them to it. He had a client to attend to.

He entered his office and closed the door gently behind him. His newest client was sitting in one of the two chairs, leaning back and appearing comfortable, long legs crossed casually, eyes flitting passively about the room. As John made his way to his own chair, he took a moment to survey the man before him – it was part of the gig, as a therapist, to do a little analysing before the actual session. Body language spoke volumes, and physical appearance could give invaluable information. It was clear to see that the young man was guarded – his posture in the chair gave the impression of nonchalance, but it was calculated nonchalance; that much was obvious. His long body and limbs were arranged in a casual fashion, but his jaw was set firmly and his eyes were sharp. The index and middle fingers of his right hand, hanging over the armrest, were rubbing together in a small, rapid motion – possibly a habitual tick brought on by anxiety or annoyance. The most striking feature about the youth was his skin – so pale, it was nearly translucent. He was thin, too – his skin was pulled taut over his sharp cheekbones, his cheeks were sunken in, and above them, dark circles outlined his pale, keen eyes. Which, John noted, were just the slightest bit bloodshot. Of course, he couldn’t make any assumptions – honestly, at this time of year, with the school term ending, many university students looked about on the brink of death, sleep-deprived and stressed as they were. With his initial observation of his client over with, the doctor decided to begin.

“So.” John moved to sit in the empty chair with a soft sigh, making himself comfortable before looking up at the young man before him with a small smile. “Sherlock, was it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, sounding almost distracted as his eyes were fixed on something behind John and off to the side. John didn’t bother to look. A few moments of silence passed before the doctor spoke again.

“Right. Well, Sherlock, pleasure to meet you.” John blatantly ignored the rather sassy eye-roll he was given in response, and continued on. “So, what brings you here today?” he asked conversationally.

“An incompetent and eager-to-please member of New Scotland Yard’s finest,” Sherlock muttered with no small amount of venom, eyes flashing.

John actually smiled. “So Greg’s a policeman?”

“ _Head Detective Inspector,_ ” Sherlock bit out sardonically. “As if that’s some grandiose accomplishment. They’re imbeciles, the lot of them.”

“What makes you say that?” John asked curiously, tilting his head slightly and settling comfortably into the conversation – complaining about police officers being daft was certainly an interesting way to start a session, but he’d take it. “I rather think they’ve got to be at least somewhat competent – they caught that serial killer a few days ago, didn’t they? It was all over the news,” he said, recalling the headlines from earlier that week. A grisly story, it had been, for certain. John, for one, was impressed by the cunning of the police force – it took a lot of work to catch masterminds like the mass-murderer they’d recently apprehended, didn’t it?

Sherlock turned his blasé expression on John – which was the first time in the session the young man had actually looked at him. “You honestly think those simpletons cracked that case on their own? Dear Lord,” he sighed absently, looking away again, an almost distraught expression coming to his face as he gazed tiredly at a blank wall, “you people have far too much faith in your law enforcement officers. Allow me to be the first to tell you that your beloved ‘Boys in Blue’ are actually quite stupid. Really, they are. Lestrade isn’t completely inept, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not exactly brilliant.”

John furrowed his brow a little and quirked his lips. “So… Hold on. Are you in here because… Why has Greg brought you here? Have you gotten into trouble with the police?” Sherlock and Greg seemed to know each other rather well. They’d exchanged words about the younger man’s brother, after all. And Greg obviously cared for the boy. What had happened?

“Well,” Sherlock began, “I’m here because Lestrade has taken it upon himself to play Mummy, and is holding my current status as New Scotland Yard’s sniffer dog above my head in a feeble attempt to scare me into sobriety.” His tone was bored, but John noticed a minute change in the young man’s posture. A slight ripple of tenseness turned the once-casual posture into something acutely more rigid at the seemingly nonchalant, offhand mention of drugs.

“Ah, so this is a matter of some sort of… substance usage,” John surmised, strategically avoiding the term ‘abuse’.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his posture going lax again as if he found John’s conversation unbearably tedious. Which was most likely the case, John thought, after having spoken to the man for a short while. “Astute observation, Doctor,” he drawled, looking directly back at John again. “Shall I detail for you the sort of _substances_ I indulge in? Or would you rather just get to diagnosing me and recommending me to one of those loathsome twelve-step programs?”

“No,” John responded casually, earning a guarded, yet somewhat surprised look from Sherlock. “I mean, this is just an intake. I don’t want to go pushing you too quickly, here. I hardly know you, you don’t know me – not really my place to go telling you what to do,” he shrugged.

At this, Sherlock’s eyes flashed with something akin to excitement, before they narrowed, and suddenly John felt nearly overwhelmed with being the subject of such an intensely concentrated stare. The corner of Sherlock’s lips twitched up in an almost dark smirk, and John felt his stomach drop a touch. “I know that you’re a former member of the Royal Army Medical Corps, recently invalidated home from Afghanistan due to a bullet wound in the shoulder. Your wound left you with PTSD and an intermittent tremor, deeming you unfit for duty and unable to continue on your original career path as a surgeon, or you wouldn’t be here with your own practise. No one could survive in London on an army pension alone, you’re not wealthy, but you needed some source of income, so you’re here. But you don’t love it here – why don’t you go to your family for help until you’re back on your feet? You don’t have family around here – at least not a supportive family – you do have a brother who cares about you, but you won’t go to him for help… possibly because of his excessive alcohol abuse, but more likely because he’s recently left his wife. And I know you’ve got a therapist,” he tacked on, the final comment nearly offhanded.

The spiel ended so abruptly that John nearly got whiplash. His eyes were wide and unblinking, his lips were parted in shock, and his body had tipped slightly forward, as if he were somehow drawn toward the verbal slaughter he’d just undergone. After a heavily pregnant pause, John blinked a few times, rapidly, and closed his mouth. He swallowed, and then found himself speaking before he’d given his mouth permission to move. “How did you know I have a therapist?” he asked softly, his voice bordering on breathy.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. “You’ve got a mild limp that is almost assuredly psychosomatic, an intermittent tremor, and PTSD. Of course you’ve got a therapist,” he drawled, sounding incredibly, impossibly bored. “You know, this is hardly ideal, seeing a therapist who’s got _himself_ a therapist,” the youth mumbled derisively, eyes moving away from John and falling on the armrest of his own chair, where his nimble fingers idly picked at a loose thread poking out of a seam in the fabric.

John didn’t even acknowledge the biting comment regarding his own therapist. “Brilliant,” he whispered, before he’d even realised he’d moved his lips to speak.

Sherlock’s head whirled up to look at him so quickly, John had half a mind to be worried about the possibility of the young man getting vertigo. The look in his eyes certainly appeared dizzy, dazed, and confused as it was. “Sorry?” he asked, sounding nearly incredulous, his brow heavily furrowed.

For his part, John just smiled, and he had a feeling it looked a touch too giddy, but he couldn’t really help that at the moment. “That was… absolutely brilliant. Incredible. Jesus, Sherlock—how did you do that? How could you _possibly_ know all of that?” he asked breathlessly, completely awe-struck, and perhaps a little star-struck as well.

For a fraction of a second, Sherlock’s eyes lit up. A youthful exuberance took over his features and John found himself growing overwrought with anticipation, with excitement over this newfound treasure that was sitting before him. But in an instant, the young man’s dark, guarded mask was back, his jaw set, his body seemed to fold in on itself just so, and those keen blue-green-grey eyes dimmed as he stared the doctor down. Instead of answering John’s question, he merely lifted his chin sharply in a gesture of stern defiance and said, in that low baritone that held a razor-sharp edge, “your five minutes are up, Doctor.”

Sherlock rose precipitously, and didn’t look anywhere in John’s direction in favour of the door, which he swung open brashly, and proceeded to stride through the lobby and to the main door, much to the surprise of John’s secretary, and much to the dismay of John and Greg, who both watched Sherlock exit with wide, startled eyes and agape mouths.

“Sherlock?” Greg called after the young man, but it was too late, as the main door was already closing behind him. The detective inspector began to follow, but seemed to realise that any attempt at restraining Sherlock and persuading him to do anything other than what he wanted to do would prove to be laughably futile. Instead, Greg huffed an aggravated breath and ran an anxious hand through his silver hair. Then he turned his gaze to John, who had since risen from his chair to come and stand in the doorway of his office, gazing bewilderedly at the exit. John turned his head to look back at him.

“... The five minutes were up,” he said quietly, still sounding a bit dazed. “Um… I’m sorry. He just… left,” he tried explaining, but it sounded pathetic even to his own ears.

Greg, however, seemed to understand completely, as his shoulders sagged and his lips pursed, and he let out a slow breath through his nose. “Yeah. He, um. He’ll do that.” He gave John an apologetic glance. “Sorry about that. But thank you for your time. Seriously.”

John nodded silently and looked back at the door, finding himself still a bit speechless. After a few long moments, Greg spoke up again.

“Did he, um… What did you talk about?”

At that, John looked back at him, and a small, apologetic smile graced his features. “Sorry. Doctor-patient confidentiality. Can’t tell you anything unless I feel he’s a danger to himself or other people,” he explained.

Greg rolled his eyes lightly. “He’s a danger to the whole of bloody London,” he murmured, but the comment held an unexpected, strange sort of fondness that warmed John’s heart. The man seemed to understand though, as he nodded and took a few steps towards the door. “Well, I better go try to find him, make sure he gets home safe,” he sighed, and John felt an incredible sense of gratitude for the man – he wasn’t Sherlock’s keeper, but he felt so strongly towards him, it was obvious. He was like an older brother to the kid, and John found himself feeling honoured to have met him. To have met them both, really. Even though it looked like their acquaintanceship would turn out to be devastatingly short.

“Best of luck,” John said with a soft smile, and gave a small wave as Greg headed to the door.

The detective inspector turned back and gave a small smile of his own. “Thanks,” he said, and gave a little two-finger salute in farewell. “Take care, you two,” he added with a glance between the doctor and the young girl at the desk, and with that, he was gone.

The silence, heavy with questions, seemed to hang in the air for an eternity before the young receptionist spoke, her voice quiet. “Well, ten minutes until closing.” She looked to John with a faint sigh and a tired smirk. “Rather exciting end to the day. What happened? Why’d he storm out like that?” she asked curiously.

John’s lips pressed together in a tight line as he frowned mildly at the main doorway. “I’m not entirely sure,” he murmured, and stared at the door a few moments longer before shaking his head and sighing, bringing himself out of his reverie. “But they’re gone. And you’re right, office hours are nearly over… You can pack up and leave early, if you want,” he said, giving her a smile.

The secretary quirked an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Go on, it’s been a long day. I’ve got some paperwork to finish - I’ll wrap that up quick and close everything up when I’m done.”

“Alright. Thanks, John,” the girl said with a smile, and began to gather her things.

John, for his part, left her to her devices and returned to his small office to sit at his desk. He glanced at the chair where the a brilliant, yet snarky young man had been seated mere minutes before, and let out a slow breath. Try as he might, the doctor couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret at how short-lived their acquaintanceship had been. Sherlock. An interesting name, certainly, but John found it quite fitting, from what he had come to know of the young man. An interesting name for an interesting person. Unfortunately, it didn’t look as though he would get to see him again.

At the sound of the front door opening and closing, signifying his secretary's departure, John set to work wrapping up what little paperwork he had left for the day. It would have taken him less than ten minutes, but he managed to stretch it out to nearly half an hour - and maybe part of him was hopeful that if he stayed around the office a while longer, maybe someone would show up. Maybe a very specific someone, at that.

But the minutes ticked on and the bell over the front door remained drearily unrung, and John finally decided he couldn’t stall any longer lest he risk falling asleep on the tube ride back to his flat. With a heavy sigh, he picked himself up out of his chair, hissing in mild pain as he put a little too much pressure on his leg - Sherlock had been right, he did have a limp, and it was, indeed, psychosomatic, according to his therapists. After leaning on his desk a few moments to regain his bearings, he packed away his papers into their appropriate file folders, placing them neatly in his desk drawers, slid his laptop into its bag, put on his jacket, and shouldered his messenger bag before making his way out and locking up the office behind him.

And on his way home, if he scanned the grounds of the medical centre a bit more than he usually did, part of him possibly hoping to catch a glimpse of a mop of unruly dark curls, he didn’t allow himself to ruminate on it much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief note: it is worth mentioning that, upon researching, I have not found a UK equivalent to the American Purple Heart award, which is presented to soldiers who are wounded in action, and to the families of soldiers killed in action. I am also not aware of a UK equivalent to the Operational Service Medal for Afghanistan. But I believe our dear doctor deserves awards, so I gave him awards. If any of you know of a better award/set of awards for him, do let me know, and I will alter it in the story. Thank you, and enjoy.

* * *

A week after what John had come to remember as quite possibly the most interesting, entertaining, and perplexing intake session of his career, found the ex-army doctor ambling casually through the quad outside the hospital and his practise, on the way back to work from his lunch break.

The day after Sherlock, his most memorable client to date, swept in and out of his office like a humanoid whirlwind, leaving destruction and confusion in his wake, John had come into the office early and spotted a partially-filled-out form on Rachel’s desk. John had picked it up and discovered Sherlock’s name at the top. Sherlock Holmes, it read, and the numbers on the line next to the name indicated that Sherlock was twenty-four years of age, born on the sixth of January. There was a phone number written down, and some medical information had been filled out at the bottom of the sheet, but John figured out rather quickly that it must have been Greg who had jotted down the information, seeing as Sherlock had barely been in the office for more than five minutes and hadn’t been out of John’s sight for hardly any of it. It was for this reason that the form hadn’t been filed with his other papers, he figured, since it couldn’t be properly documented, considering who had filled it out. Namely, not the client in question.

That didn’t mean that John couldn’t use the information, though. 

Sure, on some (many) levels, it could be seen as highly unprofessional, John typing that name into the search engine on his laptop and looking up the mobile number he’d been supplied with, but he had been curious. What he had uncovered was worth the not-so-difficult dig; a blog that was predictably as baffling, yet marvelously brilliant as the mind behind it. The first entry that appeared had detailed, of all things, ash. One-hundred and forty different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco ash, to be precise. Needless to say, John was simultaneously amused, and fascinated. 

He had also been notably more enthusiastic to go to work over the days that followed Sherlock’s visit, hoping to catch a glimpse of the enigmatic young man from that evening. There was no sight nor sound of him, however, and John’s hope that he’d see Sherlock again dwindled with each passing day. 

Over the days that followed, the doctor had fallen back into his regular routine, seeing his usual clients, and was currently making his way back to his office to get some more paperwork done before closing - he had a few hours yet, but those were merely open office hours for walk-in appointments.

Upon his return to the office, Rachel smiled at him from her place behind the secretary’s desk, and before John could even say hello, he caught something strange out of the corner of his eye; the door to his office was slightly ajar. Before he had the chance to question it, Rachel spoke.

“You have a client. He insisted on waiting in your office,” she added, answering his unspoken question of why said client wasn't simply waiting in the lobby, as per usual custom. She gave him a sort of amused smirk at his raised eyebrow, but offered no further information as she clacked away at her keyboard once again.

John, for his part, just pursed his lips and looked at his office door, wondering who had the audacity to just sit in his office while he wasn't there. How long had they been in there, anyway? What if they'd tampered with his things? He'd have to have a word with Rachel about that later. 

For the time being, though, the doctor simply squared his shoulders and made his way over to his office. He rapped his knuckles on the door thrice lightly to announce his arrival, before pushing the door open fully. 

“Sorry,” he started automatically, “I was out for lunch. Didn't mean to keep you waiti-- oh.”

The sight of the young man sitting casually in one of the chairs caused a momentary hitch in John’s entire existence, it seemed. 

“Sherlock.”

A soft puff of dry laughter came from the man in the chair, accompanied by a slight toss of a dark, curly hair-covered head. “So you remember me,” the deep baritone drawled, but a small, amused smirk on the young man’s lips betrayed his obvious, if mild, entertainment at the doctor’s reaction.

“Well, I- Um.” John hastily stepped into the room fully and closed the door behind him, leaving them out of earshot of the secretary. “I… Yeah. I mean, it's only been a week, hasn't it?” He took off his jacket and hung it haphazardly over the back of his desk chair, before taking a seat in the second armchair in the room; the twin to the one Sherlock was sitting in.

“A week, yes,” Sherlock confirmed, and looked at him directly. Just like last time they’d met, John felt himself captivated by that stare, so focused and analytical. Sherlock didn’t say anything further.

John cleared his throat. “Okay, so… I’m glad you’re back,” he said with a smile, trying not to let on just how glad he really was. “And surprised,” he added honestly, his head tilting slightly. “I didn’t see Greg anywhere out there. Did you come back by yourself?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock muttered with an eye-roll. 

“Why did you come back? You seemed rather miffed about being here last time.”

At this question, John sensed a pause. He could almost visualise the hesitation in Sherlock’s thought process as the younger man took a moment to formulate an answer. Surely, thought John, it wouldn’t be easy for Sherlock to admit coming back here of his own accord. It hardly ever was easy, for anyone who came to therapy, to admit that they were asking for help.

“I… Well, why does anyone come back?” Sherlock asked, dodging John’s question with a rhetorical inquiry of his own.

John decided to answer the question anyway, if only to give Sherlock time to think about his own reasoning. “Many reasons,” he began. “Many people I see are having a hard time dealing with stress. Almost all of my clients are university students. Especially at this time of year, I’m sure you can imagine, students are all keyed up over exams and things. They like to come in here looking for help with whatever they need, whether it be prioritising, stress-relief, things like that. Some people are grieving. Some people are dealing with depression, anxiety, other things… Identity crisis, drug and alcohol abuse, relationship problems… And some people just like to come in and chat,” he finished with a small smile. “Take your pick,” he tacked on with a touch of humour.

That actually gained a hint of a smile from Sherlock, much to John’s amazement and relief. “I can’t imagine why people would pay money to just  _ chat _ ,” he said, but there was no malice in his tone.

“Most don’t pay.” John shrugged. “This practise is affiliated with the universities in the area. Along with the medical centre across the way,” he elaborated, gesturing vaguely at his door. “Students get loads of sessions for free. They get free medical attention over there, free therapy sessions here, and several even have internships with us.” He paused as Sherlock gave a small hum of understanding, but instead of adding any thoughts of his own, the young man merely averted his gaze to the armrest, where his fingers were, just like last time, toying with a loose thread in the fabric. John spoke again. “Do you go to university around here?”

“Graduated last year,” Sherlock murmured.

Ah, that was something. John smiled. “Really? Congratulations. From where?”

Sherlock looked up briefly. “Bart’s.” His answer was short and clipped, and his gaze dropped back down to the armrest after he’d spoken. 

There was a brief pause, and John opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock, unexpectedly, interrupted him. “Chemistry. I… Got my degree in Chemistry.”

“Oh,” John said, that piece of the puzzle clicking into place in his head. Of course, chemistry - that bit about the chemical makeups of tobacco ash should have given that away. But Sherlock didn’t know that he knew that. “Undergraduate degree?”

“Master’s,” came the immediate correction.

“Mm,” John gave a hum of understanding. “Tough programme, I reckon,” he commented casually.

At that, Sherlock looked up at him, an eyebrow quirked. “You would know. You’ve taken extensive biology and chemistry courses,” he said.

John blinked. “I- how do you-”

“Your bookshelf,” Sherlock cut in, his head nodding in the direction of the tower of books lining a good portion of one wall. “You have quite a collection of textbooks there. Many of them heavily used - some book covers torn or folded, some covers of the hard-backs missing entirely. The biology texts were used in your undergraduate years, I would say, judging by the editions - we’ve updated since you’ve graduated. Though you’ve got several books that suggest education far past pre-med. You got your Master’s and PhD, but you never intended to be here. You were going to be a surgeon,” he surmised, and quickly moved on. “But of course, you can’t be a surgeon with a tremour, can you?”

Sharp verdigris eyes locked with John’s at the end of the narrative, and Sherlock’s body appeared stiff, anxiously awaiting a response from the doctor. For John’s part, all he could do was stare for a few long moments, before puffing out an almost startled breath of laughter, and he shook his head as a smile formed on his face. “There you go again,” he marveled.

Sherlock visibly stiffened, eyes flashing defensively, until John continued.

“Brilliant. Absolutely… astounding. Just like last time,” he said, words trailing off into a sort of baffled chuckle. “How do you do it?”

Disregarding John’s question completely, Sherlock seemed to focus only on the first thing John had said. “... Do you think so?” he asked, after a heavily pregnant pause.

John actually blinked in surprise. “O-of course,” he sputtered, astounded that Sherlock would assume he’d think anything different. “Incredible. Absolutely amazing,” he gushed, perhaps getting a little overzealous with his words.

Not that Sherlock seemed to mind, though, as a sort of clouded and distracted look overcame him, and the young man looked away, off to the side, remaining silent a few moments longer. After several more beats, he cleared his throat and spoke, quietly. “That’s… not what people normally say.”

John quirked an inquisitive eyebrow. “And what do people normally say?” he asked.

Sherlock took an audible breath, his eyes still on the wall, though his voice was a bit more sure when he spoke next. “Piss off,” he said, quite bluntly with an air of nonchalance… But then he turned his head slightly to look at John, and the small smile that formed on his lips actually met his eyes, which were full of mirth.

John, rather stricken by the answer he was given, felt a strong and sudden surge of protectiveness, and of hatred towards anyone who would think Sherlock was anything less than perfect. But he was disarmed completely by that smile, and found himself smiling right back. And soon, he was laughing, a soft, light, giddy sort of laugh, and he was shocked when, after a moment, Sherlock actually joined him, the young man’s chuckles rumbling out in a much deeper timbre.

After a few long moments where John struggled to compose himself, the doctor cleared his throat and, still smiling, addressed his client. “You can’t be serious. People actually say that?” he asked, incredulously.

“More often than not,” Sherlock affirmed, and John could tell Sherlock had become exponentially more comfortable; his fingers were lax, hands hanging over the armrests, his foot was swaying to and fro subtly where it was hanging, his legs being crossed, and his face had taken on an air that was so much younger than what John had sensed prior. “That’s actually rather mild, really. I get plenty of expletives thrown my way on a daily basis,” he murmured with a half-shrug.

John just shook his head. “Well, then you ought to be hanging around some different people,” he said. “You’ve got a real talent - a magnificent one, at that. You should be around people who appreciate it and reinforce how… God. How  _ brilliant _ you are.”

It could have been a trick of the light, but John could have sworn he saw Sherlock’s cheeks turn just the slightest bit rosy at his words. Sherlock looked down at his lap. “I’m fairly certain you’re the only one who’s mad enough to find me brilliant,” he mumbled, but John could almost assuredly hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice.

“Well, I went to war. I’m already certifiably mad,” he jested, but then a thought struck him. “Speaking of war… Last time. When you… When you said all that stuff. How did you know all of that?” John leaned forward slightly in his chair again, his anticipation rising.

Sherlock’s bottom lip was caught between his teeth when he looked up at John again, and he appeared almost shy, as if no one had ever asked him to elaborate on his scathing analysis of someone’s backstory before. “I…” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Um. Well, your medical background is quite obvious from your books and your diplomas hanging on the wall,” he indicated each with a tip of his head in the respective directions of each object of interest, “and your military career is evident by, most obviously, the framed photo atop your desk, as well as your Purple Heart award on the wall. Less obvious, to  _ normal _ people, would be your appearance; your overall stature resembles something akin to attention when you stand idly. Your hair is cut in a way that implies military - you've not been home quite long enough for it to grow out completely, and if you have been, you’re too accustomed to it being short to let it get much longer. Your hands are rough and tanned - I noticed in the toilets when I first spotted you last week - but above the wrists, you're significantly more pale. So, you'd been abroad, but not sunbathing. I would have questioned where you were stationed, my choices being limited to either Afghanistan or Iraq, but the photo as well as the Operational Service Medal for Afghanistan on the wall there supplied me with that piece of information quite nicely.”

John, after a moment, let out a breathy laugh and sat fully back in his chair, shaking his head in amazement. “My God. Have you researched me?” he asked on a chuckle, obviously awed. 

Sherlock cracked a small smile, a puff of laughter escaping his lips. “Not in depth. Your blog isn’t much to look at,” he said, the tone of his voice good-humoured.

Which, John knew, was true; his therapist had long ago suggested that he start a blog to keep a record of whatever happened in his day-to-day life. Which was probably a good idea, in theory, except that all the blog did was remind John just how little happened in his day-to-day life. And thus, it remained depressingly void of, well, anything at all. Save for his name, a horrendously short bio, and an introductory post that clearly had next-to-no effort put into it.    


“Yeah, not much to gain from that at all,” the doctor concurred with a half-shrug and a smile. “Though, you mentioned… my therapist, and my limp. My tremour. And my-”

“-Ah, yes,” Sherlock interrupted, waving a hand through the air almost dismissively, “and your alcoholic brother. Simple, the first bit. Your tremour was obvious, as well as your limp - physical, habitual attributes that are noticeable to anyone who observes. The fact that your limp is psychosomatic is obvious by how you stand; it’s not bad enough for you to use a cane, and you seem to forget it’s there when standing idly, or even walking when you’re otherwise distracted. Then you remember it’s there, and you slightly favour your other leg, even though there’s no real injury. And you have a therapist, of course, because you have a limp and a tremour. The PTSD is evident from the fact that your tremour and psychosomatic limp exist at all, as well as the fact that you are hyper aware of exits; I noticed in the waiting lounge, in the loo, and in here,” he said with a flourish of his hand and a dismissive shrug. “And as for your brother… Well.” He gave a small, self-satisfied smile, and then fixed his eyes on John’s. “In the loo. You removed your watch to wash your hands, and set it face-down on the countertop. There’s an engraving on the back of it - To Harry Watson, From Clara, with three X’s, for three kisses. The watch was a gift. You’re obviously not Harry, but you share the last name. It’s a young man’s gadget, flashy, new - not from your father. So, brother it is. Three kisses signifies romantic attachment, and the expense of the watch says wife, not girlfriend. Fairly new watch, too. That model came out a mere five months ago. Five months, marriage is in trouble, and he’s given his watch away? If she’d left him, he would have kept it. Sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the watch to you, so he’s at least thinking about you - he wants you to stay in touch, else he would have pawned it. But there’s no evidence in your office that you have a sibling, let alone any sort of family. You’re distant. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

“How on Earth can you  _ possibly _ know about the drinking?” John asked, feeling slightly out of breath.

Sherlock smiled slyly in response. “Shot in the dark. Good one though,” he murmured, before launching into his analysis once more. “Last week, I mentioned sobriety, and your eyes moved to my arms; they were covered, but you subconsciously wanted to check for track marks. You knew immediately that it was drugs we were dealing with, not alcohol; therefore, you have enough experience with alcohol abusers to know if you’re dealing with one from just a few minutes of exposure. I would guess parents - which is still likely - but you’ve probably been exposed, at your age, to a sibling more than your parents. Or you indulge in a bit of drink yourself. Either way, you’ve got someone you’re close to who drinks. And you obviously aren’t close to your parents, but you’ve seen your brother over the last few months, who you’re still obviously not close to if there is literally nothing in your office to let on that you have a sibling at all. Again, like I said; shot in the dark,” he finished with a mild shrug.

After a long pause where John simply stared at the young man sitting across from him, he let out a huff of disbelief. “That… was amazing,” he said simply, his smile beaming.

This time around, Sherlock’s blush was clearly visible. The young man’s cheeks reddened, his eyes widened and flitted to look at the floor, and he cleared his throat awkwardly before looking back up at John, lips slightly pursed. He looked between the doctor’s eyes, as if searching for something - any sign of deception or untruth in his words. But his search was in vain, if the small, shy smile on Sherlock’s lips was anything to go by. “I- thank you,” he said, and John had a feeling those were not words that he exercised often.

“Of course,” John said, still smiling. “You’re a brilliant young man. And I suppose,” he added with a laugh, “that all explains how you’re working with New Scotland Yard.”

At this, Sherlock’s demeanor shifted. He straightened where he sat in the chair across from John, and his gaze once again drifted off to the side. “I’m not  _ employed. _ My involvement in cases serves as more of an… incentive.” He seemed to choose his words carefully.

And John was pretty sure he knew why. “Incentive for…?” he prompted gently.

Sherlock sighed softly, still averting his eyes. “As I said last week; maintaining sobriety.” There was a brief silence before Sherlock looked up, meeting John’s eyes, a mirthless smirk gracing his features. “I’m sure you can tell by my mere presence here how well that’s going.”

“So, last time, when Greg brought you in… you were under the influence,” John surmised.

A nod of affirmation from Sherlock confirmed John’s fears.

“And… you’re here because you want to get clean.”

At the assumption, Sherlock said nothing. His nimble fingers still fiddled at the loose thread in the chair’s fabric, but the rest of his body was almost disturbingly still. In spite of the stillness, however, John could nearly see the cogs working, whirling at breakneck speeds inside Sherlock’s head. A conflicted expression overtook his previously stoic face; his brow was furrowed, and he looked genuinely at a loss. John confidently guessed that this wasn’t a feeling this genius was used to experiencing. He took a breath and leaned forward a bit in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, and lowered his voice in volume and timbre in an attempt to reassure.

“Look. Sherlock.” He paused, waiting until the other met his eyes, albeit hesitantly, the man’s expression still guarded. Once John had his attention, he continued. “It’s okay, you know. To want help. Or just advice. Or just… someone to talk to. I already know I am nowhere near as smart as you,” he said with a soft smile, “and I’m pretty confident practically no one out there is. And I’ve only known you for… less than an hour, in total, really. But while I may not be a genius, I am human. And I know that it’s incredibly, incredibly difficult to swallow your pride and seek assistance, for anything at all, let alone something like this. Please don’t take this as falsely-placed praise, but I commend you for coming here. Especially of your own accord. Do you know how monumental that is?” he asked, genuine awe in his voice, in his eyes, in his gentle smile. “That’s huge, Sherlock. That is a  _ huge _ first step. You’re here in my office - that’s more than a lot of people can say they’ve accomplished.”

“But I don’t want  _ help. _ I don’t need to be  _ helped, _ ” Sherlock said, but his eyes had moved again to look at the floor, and the tone of his voice was far less than convincing.

In response, John’s smile only gained a fond edge, and he tilted his head slightly, inquisitively. “How often do you talk to people? Anyone at all? Like this. Not at New Scotland Yard, not all… businesslike. Do you ever just… sit down and talk with people? About… life, or whatever?”

The fact that Sherlock didn’t answer was answer enough.

After a long pause, John spoke again. “Then we can start with that. Would that be okay? We don’t even have to schedule something regular. As long as I’m free, you can just drop by, and we can talk. About the weather, about your job, about your life, about drugs, relationships, friends, family, school, your interests, you… or you can go on and tell me more about me,” he quipped playfully, referring to Sherlock’s earlier astounding analysis of his own backstory. 

This earned a small smile and a puff of air in lieu of a laugh from Sherlock, and John’s own smile grew.

“That sound alright?”

“I’m amenable,” Sherlock mumbled, and only after he spoke did his eyes flit up to meet John’s again. John noted how clear they appeared now, like perfectly-cut crystals compared to the murky, glassy, bloodshot state they were in last time they spoke. 

John nodded. “Brilliant.”

The two men exchanged a long look, content in the comfortable silence that grew between them, and John could sense the shift in Sherlock’s features from guarded and hesitant to something close to gratitude. Instead of vocalising said gratitude, however, Sherlock merely nodded and took in a cleansing breath, let it back out slowly, and relaxed a bit in his seat. The change in his overall stature was drastic, and John felt all the remaining tension in the room dissipate. He sat back in his own chair.

“So. Is there any particular time that works for you to come in? If you’d like to schedule something regular, I mean,” he asked, and automatically pivoted in his seat, reaching back over the back of his chair to grab his daily planner off of his desk to check his openings during the day if Sherlock wanted to schedule.

When he turned around, Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and gave a slight shake of his head. “I’ll come in when it’s convenient for the both of us,” he said, and while John was mildly skeptical about how exactly Sherlock would know what times suited them  _ both  _ best, he decided not to question it. Going by how he’d shown up today, he figured Sherlock would just pop in during open office hours. 

“Okay,” he agreed, not wanting to try and put constraints on when Sherlock was allowed to stop by; that wasn’t the way to get people to cooperate in this setting, by giving them deadlines and strict schedules right off the bat. At least, not in his experience.

Before he could say anything further, Sherlock rose out of his chair, a mobile phone seeming to materialise in his hand out of nowhere, agile fingers tapping away at the screen as he made his way to the door, much to John’s surprise. 

“You’re off then?” he asked, trying not to sound too crestfallen.

Apparently he succeeded in his efforts, because Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. If he did, he didn’t comment on it. “Yes,” he said, sounding distracted, his eyes still glued to his phone, “I’ve got to dash. Left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Try as he might, John couldn’t keep his face from contorting in shocked confusion at the mention of a riding crop. And a mortuary. What? “Um. Okay,” he said, the second word drawn out as he tried to work out in his head what exactly merited having a riding crop in a place that housed corpses.

Sherlock, seeming to not notice or grasp John’s confusion, opened the door and left without another word. Except, before the door shut completely behind him, a long-fingered, pale hand caught the edge of the door and pulled it open just enough for Sherlock to poke his head into the opening and look at John.

“Um. I…” Sherlock paused, looking around the room as if searching for words. John looked at him expectantly until the other spoke again. “... Thank you. For-” the fingers of the hand on the door twitched, flitted around a little in the air in a vague gesture that basically said, ‘thank you for this,’ something that Sherlock apparently couldn’t quite put into words just yet.

John just smiled warmly. “You're more than welcome,” he said, “and you are more than welcome to come in anytime that suits you. I’ll always be here during office hours. And sometimes even after. Whenever you’d like to stop by.”

An affirmative nod and a gentle smile gave John confidence that Sherlock would indeed be back. With one last look, Sherlock left, the door shutting softly behind him, and John found himself staring at the door for a few moments longer than necessary, before slouching back in his chair with a sigh and attempting to distract himself with his planner, checking and double-checking scheduled appointments for the next couple of days.

Except he found himself smiling like a fool at the page, not even reading the scribbled names and times, but rather looking at all of the blank spaces in his schedule and wondering to himself which ones that enigmatic genius of a man would be filling. Hopefully many of them. And soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday!  
> Just a quick note to you all: be sure to check the tags periodically for added content warnings as new chapters are added. Thanks so much, everyone, and I hope you enjoy.

* * *

 

It wasn’t unusual for clients to call in and cancel appointments. Generally, when this happened, John took advantage of the extra time to catch up on paperwork, surf the Internet, read, and relax between appointments. But every once in awhile, it seemed like everyone and their dog came down with the flu, had a family emergency, or was preoccupied with some other conflict. Much like today; two clients called in and canceled their appointments, and a third simply didn’t show. The worst part was that these appointments were back-to-back, so John had nearly three hours to himself, and he had no idea what to do with them. Any number of scenarios could potentially arise, making it impossible for him to leave the office.

John Watson was a man of action. Unfortunately, being a therapist for students at a university didn’t supply him with the sort of action he was acclimatised to, what with having been in the military, but at least it kept him busy. Spending hours in an office was far better than sitting at home feeling sorry for himself, taking furtive glances at the drawer of the desk in the corner of his modest one-room studio of a flat that held his gun, and letting himself get lost in his dark thoughts. 

The feelings that overwhelmed him now were not of depression and hopelessness, but rather of agonising boredom and frustration. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much time to himself - if he were at home, he’d go out on a walk or grab coffee or sit in the park; anything to get away from the stagnant, tedious drudgery of being stuck in his flat, alone with his thoughts. Now, though, he was in his office. He couldn’t simply walk away from the isolation.

Thankfully, he was tugged abruptly back from the edge of misery by the sound of his mobile pinging in his pocket. A text alert. John sat back in his chair and reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone. While he was grateful for the brief distraction from the absurd amount of nothing he had going on, he wasn’t necessarily looking forward to seeing who had messaged him; usually, it turned out to be Harry, bitching about something or another, or suggesting they meet up for coffee (which John almost always declined because whenever he didn’t, she turned up drunk), or it was Mike Stamford, who, for whatever reason, really wanted to keep in touch despite the fact that they’d hardly talked in uni and had only bumped into each other once since he’d been back. Or better yet, another client who decided to cancel.

The fact that the text was from an unknown number made the latter of his speculated scenarios increasingly more likely, and he took a fortifying breath before opening the message.

And promptly dropped his mobile on the desk in front of him in horrified shock.

A woman stared back at him from where he gaped at the lit screen of the phone. More specifically, a photograph of a woman, from the mouth up. One look at her glassy, unseeing, blood-red eyes confirmed his initial suspicion that she was, in fact, dead.

“ _ Jesus _ -” John leaned back in his desk chair, turning his head to the side, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as he struggled to steel his racing thoughts - this had to be a wrong number. Or one of those stupid chain messages people used to send in secondary, where ‘if you don’t forward this to ten people in the next ten minutes, this woman will appear in your bathroom mirror late at night and kill you, blah blah blah.’ 

Yes, that must be it. Despite his initial disgust, John’s curiosity got the better of him, and he found himself edging closer to the desk, until he was looking at the photograph again. 

At a second glance, he saw that the woman was lying on pavement. What he could see of her hair was spread out haphazardly around her head in a dirty blonde halo, and the dark concrete of the ground beneath showed through where her hair parted in places around her head. The whites of her eyes were overwhelmed with red, making the light blues of her irises stand out in stark contrast, and John’s mind immediately went to strangulation, even though he couldn’t see her neck. This poor girl… Whoever was circulating this photograph, even for cheap laughs from a juvenile spam message, was absolutely disgusting.

Shaking his head with a sigh, John picked up his phone, closed the message, and locked the device before going to set it back down on the desk. No sooner had it left his hand that it went off again. Unknown number. Frowning, the doctor picked it back up, fully expecting to see the typical ‘forward this message’ dialogue, but what he actually read when he opened the text surprised him even further.

_ In need of medical expertise. -SH _

He read the text once, then, frown deepening, read it again, and then a third time. Despite his better judgement, he brought his other hand up to type out a response. 

_ I think you have the wrong number. -JW _

Immediately, a reply:

_ I think not. This was the number on your business cards, Doctor. -SH _

“My business-” John’s eyes went to the small stack of business cards on the corner of his desk. He hadn’t given any out in the past week or so, and he certainly hadn’t seen anyone take one of their own accord. Confused, he went back to his phone.

_ Sorry, who is this? -JW _

The phone pinged, signifying a response, and again when a second one came mere seconds later.

_ Really, Doctor Watson. I had more faith in you. Please, don’t be daft. My auto-signature accompanied by a photograph of a corpse; not exactly a difficult leap. -SH _

_ Unless you’ve been in contact with another individual in the past week and a half with my initials and a penchant for hanging around dead bodies. -SH _

Well. When he put it like that, John just felt stupid. He actually rolled his eyes and muttered an exasperated curse under his breath before typing back.

_ Sherlock. You do realise this is highly unprofessional, don’t you? -JW _

A few long moments later:

_ I beg to differ. You’re at work, I’m at work, we are both presently practising our professions. And I am asking for your professional opinion. You might consider this overwhelmingly professional. -SH _

John pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned softly to himself.

_ No, you’ve sent me a photograph of a dead woman. -JW _

_ Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper. -SH _

At this, John actually smiled, letting out a soft puff of disbelieving laughter. After a few long moments of deliberation, he shook his head. “God dammit,” he mumbled, and took another look at the photo, his mind shifting into a state of intense focus. His practised eyes scanned the picture for anything he might have missed. Once satisfied, he sent his true analysis.

_ Petechiae on the face, hyperaemia of the superficial bulbar conjunctiva blood vessels… If you’re looking for cause of death, I’d put my money on asphyxiation. Strangulation. -JW _

Proud of himself, John put his mobile down on his desk, smiling smugly and crossing his arms, content with his little diagnosis as he waited for a reply. The mood shifted drastically, however, when the next text came.

_ Obviously. -SH _

Positively dejected, John frowned.

_ I mean to ask if this sort of injury can occur and be this prominent postmortem. -SH _

“Oh. Um,” John wondered aloud, thinking for a moment before responding.

_ How fresh is the body? -JW _

Immediately after he sent it, John winced. Bit insensitive, that. But apparently, that didn’t matter, as a reply came soon after.

_ No more than two hours old. -SH _

With that information, John could give a confident answer. 

_ Then I’d still place my money on strangulation as the cause of death. Postmortem petechiae don’t form that soon after death. Generally start several hours after death, and certainly not to that degree. So while other factors play into this, like her BMI, if there was actual neck or thoracic compression, which I can’t see because just her face is pictured… I’m pretty confident that strangulation was the cause of death, yes. -JW _

Minutes went by, and John started to get nervous, before his phone went off again. 

_ Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been most helpful. -SH _

Smiling, John typed back. 

_ Of course. Glad I could help. -JW _

It was probably silly of him to expect a text back, and even sillier when, half an hour later, as he spoke to his next scheduled client, he kept one hand subtly over the pocket of his trousers where his phone was on vibrate, thoroughly distracted throughout the session (not that the client noticed, thank goodness) as he eagerly awaited another word from Sherlock. 

None came.

He should have expected as much, really, John thought to himself as closing time neared. To be truthful, he was simply  _ itching _ to send a text himself, just start a conversation. But he refrained, if only to keep the facade of professionalism from crumbling. There was already a pretty fine line, apparently, if Sherlock was texting him photos of dead people and asking his opinion not even two weeks after having met him. John preoccupied himself by finishing up his paperwork and closing up, locking the door behind him as he left (he let Rachel go early again, as per his usual custom on especially slow nights), before making his way home.

And all it took was the ride home on the tube, apparently, for John to come to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be crossing that professional line to simply  _ check up _ on Sherlock, would it? He could ask about how the case went, couldn’t he? Yeah, that was professional. As Sherlock had said earlier. Purely professional.

After dumping his messenger bag on his desk, John fished his mobile out of his pocket and sat on the edge of his bed, not even taking his coat off in his eagerness. 

_ You solve the case, then? -JW _

Yes. Professional.

After he sent it, he stared at his phone. The promptness of Sherlock’s earlier responses had him thinking that the same would be the case now; no use in putting his mobile down if it was just going to go off right away.

Except it didn’t go off right away. Five minutes passed. And then another five. Then ten. John left his phone on his nightstand and shed his coat, getting up to hang it on the back of his desk chair, before going to the kitchen to rummage around in the fridge, even though he wasn’t hungry. He came back to his desk to unpack his laptop and plug it in to charge, even though it’d been charging all day at the office. He went to his bedroom to change even though he wasn’t quite ready to settle in for the night - he did all of this, pretending he wasn’t anxiously pacing for fear he’d just overstepped the bounds, he’d pried too much - Sherlock was only asking for a professional opinion. It wasn’t as if he actually  _ valued _ talking to John. For Christ’s sake, he’d known the man less that  _ two weeks _ , and he’d just gone and--

_ Ping! _

John wouldn’t admit it later, but he damn near pounced on his phone the moment it went off, scrambling to read the text. 

_ I did, yes. Thank you again for your assistance. -SH _

A relieved smile took over John’s face, and all of his anxiety melted away as he settled, sitting on his bed and typing back.

_ Good to hear. I’m just happy I could help. -JW _

_ Though I honestly expected that you’d know all of what I told you already. -JW _

He hoped Sherlock wouldn’t take his second text as an insult. He certainly hadn’t meant it that way.

_ I did know it already. -SH _

Well, at least it wasn’t taken as an insult, John thought to himself. But then, why’d he ask?

_ If you knew, why’d you ask what I thought? -JW _

A long pause followed John’s text, and while it definitely seemed curious, he tried not to worry. Sure enough, several minutes later, a reply did come.

_ A second opinion is, at times, invaluable. Especially from someone of your caliber. -SH _

John tried very hard (and failed) not to flush slightly - he was pretty sure that wasn’t supposed to be a compliment meant to flatter him, but he took it that way.

_ Well if you’re ever in need of a second opinion, don’t hesitate to ask. -JW _

Did that sound too eager? Probably.

_ You’ll be the first I consult, Doctor Watson. -SH _

John chewed on his bottom lip, his fingers dancing idly over the keys as he thought of how to respond. Did he respond? Was that a dismissal? Was he overthinking this? Was he acting a bit like a teenage girl? Yeah, he was. He sucked it up and texted back.

_ Please. Call me John. -JW _

He hoped that wasn’t too informal at first, but then, he told all of his clients to call him John. So he let himself relax. His phone went off again in his hand.

_ Right. Well, thank you again. -SH _

Sensing an end to the conversation, John smiled softly to himself and typed out his last message. 

_ Have a good night, Sherlock. -JW _

He set his mobile down on his bedside table and set about prepping the flat for nighttime, making sure the doors and windows were shut and locked, the lights off, and tumbled into his bed with a long groan of relief to be off his feet for good for the day. He began to drift off, but his phone going off on the table next to his bed kept him from his impending slumber just long enough to take a look at the text he’d received. He smiled at the screen and replaced it on his nightstand, the words that had been on the screen drifting through his head as he succumbed to the steady pull of sleep.

_ Goodnight, John. -SH _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter today, I know; but that just means another update is coming soon to make up for it. I have another post planned for Wednesday morning, so check back then! Thanks again so much for reading. You all are the reasons I am writing.  
> Also, very quickly; I have revived my Tumblr blog specifically for Sherlock things, and to give myself a chance to converse with you all outside of AO3. Come join me at https://minding-my-own-bismuth.tumblr.com/ for regular update information and lots of obligatorily-reblogged Johnlock-y goodness.


	4. Chapter 4

When John didn’t see or hear from Sherlock the following day, he couldn’t say he was terribly surprised. That being said, he would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t at least a little despondent by the lack of communication. But he was getting ahead of himself. He’d barely spoken to the man for an hour in total, and they’d exchanged a handful of text messages regarding an apparent murder. They weren’t exactly chums. John didn’t really have a reason to expect Sherlock to continue texting him.

The doctor made a point, though, to keep his mobile on hand that day at the office. And the day after that.

And the day after that.

No texts or calls came from that number (which John had saved under Sherlock’s name the day he first started texting him), and Sherlock still didn’t show up for another appointment.

Then came the day that John knew to be a week since he’d last spoken to Sherlock face-to-face. The hours ticked anxiously by, John tending to regular clients and casting furtive glances at the clock between appointments, and when closing time finally came, John was crestfallen, having thought that the young man would show; after all, Sherlock had come exactly a week after their first meeting, which was now exactly two weeks ago to the day. When John locked the door of the office behind him and started home, he felt drained; but it was different from the usual fatigue that plagued him after a long day at work. It was a deep, mental lethargy brought on by building anticipation, and the resulting disappointment. Mentally, he kicked himself, knowing that he’d been a fool to think Sherlock would ever allow himself to be kept to some sort of schedule. He didn’t seem like that sort of man.

Spontaneous, unpredictable, enigmatic, capricious… Certainly not one to adhere to a timetable.

The good doctor had just barely abstained from pulling out his mobile and sending a text near the end of the workday, under the guise of letting Sherlock know that office hours were quickly drawing to a close in case he did want to come in after all. But he knew Sherlock had his card, and that card had office hours on it, as well as information necessary to schedule appointments. And he knew Sherlock had not scheduled a meeting; he’d kept a closer eye on his online appointment book recently than he cared to admit.

In a futile attempt to distract himself from his despondency, John took a bit of a scenic route home. It was normal for him to walk from the office to his flat, as it gave him the opportunity to breathe some fresh air, clear his head, self-evaluate, and, on the off-chance he had some extra spending money, grab a few things at the grocery for his fridge, if only to make his flat seem a little less devoid of sustenance.

So he stopped by Sainsbury’s, picking up milk, eggs, beans, bread, jam, a few other odds and ends; just the essentials, really. He didn’t have money for much else. The woman at the queue was sweet; her ruby-painted lips curled into a polite smile when she spoke to him, her long, dark hair cascading down and falling in soft rivulets over her slim shoulders, and John willingly let her distract him from his thoughts regarding his newest client. He indulged in a few long moments of harmless flirting while he swiped his card - he learned she was a new employee, and they both liked the same brand of jam - but it was over quickly and John bade her a good evening with a charming smile and a polite nod, before collecting his purchases in their plastic bags and taking his leave.

The remainder of his trek home was uneventful, but John was thankful for it. Overhead, the normally overcast London skies were extraordinarily clear, the scattered and wispy stratus clouds that graced the sky tinged pink and orange by the setting sun. The tranquil scene was greatly juxtaposed to his bleak mood, and any other day, John would be thrilled to elongate his stroll just to enjoy the nice weather. At present, though, he really just wanted to get inside and settle down for the evening. He was tired, and no amount of abnormally good weather was going to change that fact.

Fishing his keys out of his pocket, John approached the front door of his building - a modest complex built of dusty brown brick, a few stories high, with several small flats inside - and let himself in. He stopped to pick up a newspaper from off the concrete step, before stepping over the threshold and closing the door behind him. All in all, for the price, it was a decent place - the neighbours were kind, quiet people who mostly kept to themselves, John didn’t feel obligated to be social (except with the pretty young woman who lived in the flat on the first floor, whom he chatted up from time to time in passing) and no one bothered him in his flat on the second floor. It wasn’t the best place he’d ever lived in, but it was a far cry from the worst, so he was content in calling it his home.

The journey up the stairs, it seemed, got easier every day. Since his limp had stopped acting up on him quite so much (even as a doctor, he’d never fully understand how something psychosomatic could affect someone to the extent it had affected him), his mobility had increased tenfold, and he hardly had to think about putting one foot in front of the other these days. He tucked the newspaper under his arm to free his hand so that he could unlock his door, and once inside, he let himself relax.

Home.

The open floor plan of the small studio perfectly represented him - he was a simple man who took comfort in a certain minimalist, orderly way of living. And while he was single, a one-room living situation such as this suited his bachelor lifestyle just fine.

What served as the foyer opened straight into the kitchen, where he deposited the grocery bags and the newspaper on the small dining table. The milk and eggs and other perishables were loaded immediately into the fridge, and the other things he left to be put in their proper places at a later time. The only feature that distinguished the kitchen from the bedroom that doubled as the sitting room was the transition from cheap linoleum to hardwood, and off to the right was a set of doors; one of which led to the bathroom, the other to a small closet. John let his messenger bag slip from its place on his shoulder, setting it on his desk chair and removing its contents - his laptop, charger, notebook, daily planner, and some paperwork - to place on the desk. The bag itself was then placed alongside the desk in its designated spot. From the pockets of his shooting jacket, John took his mobile, keys, and wallet, placing them on the desk as well.

With his post-work routine finished, John shed his jacket to place over the back of his desk chair and made his way to his bed, sitting down with a soft groan of relief and toeing off his shoes, kicking them off to the side once removed. The bed under him wasn’t extraordinarily comfortable; it didn’t give much support, the sheets were low thread count, the duvet being one John had used throughout university and had put away in a storage unit when he’d gone to war. But John didn’t mind - it was better than his cot in Afghanistan by a long-shot, so he was by no means complaining.

The remote control sat temptingly on the bedside table, and John pursed his lips as he deliberated. Coming to the conclusion that a bit of telly before bed wouldn’t hurt, he took the remote in his hand, aimed it at the small television that sat a short distance away across the room, and pushed the power button.

A familiar face graced the screen as the television screen crackled to life, and as the picture shifted into focus, the voice of the middle-aged weather reporter on the screen came through, informing John and the countless other viewers in the area about what weather they could expect for the rest of the week. A look at the forecast made John think that maybe he should have stayed outside longer to appreciate the nice weather; gloomy skies and rain were imminent, according to the colourful pictures on the screen that the meteorologist motioned towards with exaggerated movements. But John was tired, he’d had a long day, and he had to get up for work in the morning. There would be more nice days, eventually.

With a sigh, John moved to turn off the television, but his thumb stopped, hovering over the power button on the remote, when he heard the meteorologist turn the news over to the main news anchors, the “Breaking News” headline taking over the screen in bold, white font.

“The search for Laura Tanning came to an end two days ago, when a maintenance worker made a gruesome discovery; a body, hidden in the brush, on her way to work-” a map that had appeared in the corner of the screen displayed a blue dot between Kew Gardens and the Thames “-law enforcement officials called to the scene later determined that the body was that of the twenty-two-year-old Imperial College student, who had been missing since last Thursday.” The solemn face of the news anchor disappeared as the screen transitioned to a photo of the young girl, her dark-blonde hair long and wavy, the sweet smile on her face reaching her light blue eyes, which were shining with happiness. The news reporter’s voice came through again, as he told the story of the young girl who had passed, but the words that were spoken didn’t register with John as he stared at the screen in shock. He didn’t need to check the messages on his phone to know that the girl whose smiling face was depicted on his television was none other than the corpse in the photograph Sherlock had sent him those days ago. The screen changed again, to a video feed from a news camera, regaining John’s attention as yet another familiar face was shown, apparently being interviewed.

A caption at the bottom of the screen introduced the man, reading “Gregory Lestrade - Head Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard,” and sure enough, John recognised the man speaking into the microphones pointed at him from unseen sources as the man who had dragged Sherlock into his office two weeks ago. John sat back on his bed and watched.

“Can you tell us anything about the cause of death?” asked one reporter, her voice muffled by the sounds of chatter and the cacophony of camera shutters.

“All we can tell you at this point is that this was a homicide; all other information is confidential at this point, as we are still discussing matters with the girl’s family.” Lestrade pursed his lips and gave a tight nod at one of the cameras after he’d spoken, and John had a feeling this was something he had to say quite often. The reporters all started speaking over the top of each other, eager to have their questions answered, but one young man’s voice broke through.

“Do you have anything to say to other university students who feel their safety is threatened in wake of Laura’s death?”

At this question, Lestrade looked into another camera and took a breath before answering. “Not just to university students, but to everyone in general,” he said, looking between all the cameras pointed at him, “just exercise caution. We don’t know yet who did this, but we at Scotland Yard are working around the clock to find and apprehend them. Don’t go out after dark by yourself, don’t travel alone to places that aren’t public, carry pepper spray with you - take the necessary steps to make sure you’re safe, and make sure you’re prepared if that safety is compromised.” He gave another nod and a small, tight smile, and then said, “thank you,” and turned away from the cameras. The reporters all shouted over the top of each other again, trying to get more answers from the detective inspector, but a young woman with dark skin and dark, curly hair stepped between Lestrade and the cameras and said “no further questions,” fending them off, until the news feed switched back to one of the news anchors sitting at the desk in the studio.

“That interview was from a few days ago; since then, the man responsible for her death, thirty-year-old Matthew Hughes-” a mugshot of a rather rugged-looking man appeared in the corner of the screen briefly “-has been taken into custody, and will be put on trial for murder in the first degree. Meanwhile, a public memorial service to celebrate the life of Laura and to honour her memory will be held in Watford this weekend for her friends and colleagues to attend and pay respects to the family suffering this tragic loss. More information about the service and this case can be found on our website. In other news, construction on Farringdon Street to potentially cause significant traffic delays this week after-”

What? John frowned at the television screen, which had shifted to a video feed of construction workers on the side of the road, traffic crawling sluggishly by, while the voice of the news anchor carried on suggesting alternate traffic routes for drivers and advising people leave for work early in the days to come. There hadn’t been a single mention of Sherlock. Though, John thought to himself, the television coverage was never terribly detailed, and perhaps Sherlock’s role was simply confirming the cause of death; which he had asked John about. That was something any trained forensic pathologist doing an autopsy could have identified once the body was transported to a morgue, anyhow. Still, John was sure that everyone who had a role in the solving of the crime, no matter how small their contribution may have been, received some form of credit. Maybe it was on the website.

Leaving the telly on to create background noise, John retrieved his phone from his desk and returned to his bed, sitting down and pulling up the news website and navigating to the story on Laura Tanning and her death. In addition to the information they’d provided on the news story he’d just watched, the report online included time and cause of death, information about why she was by Kew Gardens, her relationship with her killer, and a list of forensics experts and detectives who had worked on the case, including interviews from other members of New Scotland Yard’s police force: Thallia Williams, Phillip Anderson, Tobias Gregson, Sally Donovan, Gregory Lestrade, Charles Dimmock… No mention of Sherlock. A whole list of people being thanked for their contribution to the case , no matter how small - even a groundskeeper at Kew Gardens was thanked for his time in the article - and yet, not one mention of Sherlock’s name.

Frowning, John scrolled to the top of the page once more to scan through the article again, searching for any offhand mention of a private detective, anything he might have missed, and his search paid off when he happened upon a reference that seemed rather vague and peculiar.

_“An anonymous tipper supplied the detectives at New Scotland Yard with information giving them a lead in the case… ended in the apprehension of Laura’s murderer.”_

John wondered, with mild suspicion, who that might be referring to. Then he recalled his first meeting with Sherlock; the young man griped and groused concerning the incompetence of the police force, after John referenced specifically the then-recent serial killings that had disquieted London. The way Sherlock had spoken had John believing that he’d lent a helping hand or two in that case.

Wracking his brain to remember the details of the latest victim in the string of killings - Peter Something-Or-Another - John sifted through the archives of the website until he came across the thread of articles reporting on the serial killer investigation. Surprisingly - or, perhaps, _un_ surprisingly - after scanning all of the articles, while there was no explicit mention of Sherlock’s name, in each article, without fail, there was a mention of an “anonymous tipper.” Sometimes it was in the middle of a paragraph, tying right into the investigation, and other times it was an offhand mention in small, italic font in a brief acknowledgements section at the end of the article, where no one would see it. John grew frustrated as he wondered just why no one so much as inquired as to the identity of this “anonymous tipper,” skimming the comments sections in each of the articles to check and see if a member of the public came forward to claim responsibility for the tips themselves; but he came to the realisation soon enough that the anonymous tip, obviously, was not the main focus.

No one cared _how_ the killer was found. So long as they had been taken into custody and brought to justice, the public appeared satiated. John would bet his next paycheck that hardly anyone actually read the articles in their entirety; he would be lying if he claimed to have read them himself, before tonight. He had seen the headlines of the news stories come up on a news feed: “Killer Strikes Again,” “Another Homicide Shakes Central London,” “Murderer Still At Large,” and finally, “Serial Killer Apprehended.” And he’d thought, “what a shame,” and then “what a relief,” respectively, and he’d gone on with his day.

John recalled Sherlock saying he didn’t get paid, that he didn’t really work for New Scotland Yard; he merely helped out on occasion. Regardless, it didn’t quite make sense to John why Sherlock refused to take credit for his contributions. Then a thought struck him: maybe Sherlock _wanted_ credit, but Scotland Yard and the writers of these news stories simply weren’t _giving_ Sherlock the recognition he so clearly deserved. The thought had John suddenly stewing where he sat.

The lad was brilliant. Blindingly brilliant. John was positive that Sherlock had more than quite a bit to do with these cases; especially when an “anonymous tipper” showed up in every bloody article, _constantly_ giving police their breakthrough leads. Christ, the more John looked, and the more he read of articles dating back further and further in the website’s archives, the more it appeared this anonymous bloke was practically _spoon-feeding_ these leads to the detectives at NSY. And still, he remained nameless, no proper credit being given.

 _What a load of shite,_ John thought, brow creased with discontent, and he exited the webpage, sliding his fingers across his mobile screen to open up his text messages out of reflex, not even thinking, pulling up a blank message to text Sherlock with a demand for answers...

Until he saw the time, glaring at him menacingly from the upper right-hand corner of his phone screen. It was half-eleven. The realisation that he had apparently been rummaging through old news articles for nearly two hours had John’s fatigue suddenly hitting him like a lorry. A quick glance at the television revealed that the news for the day was over, and the screen was simply showing the forecast for the next week, with soothing music playing in the background. The digital clock on his nightstand blinked teasingly at him, reading 11:34 PM, and he sighed dejectedly, knowing that he had to get up in just over six hours. _Christ._

John locked his phone and plugged it in to charge, setting it on the bedside table and using the remote to turn the telly off, leaving the room silent.. His fatigue was quickly catching up to him, now that he wasn’t preoccupied with his phone, so he quickly set about getting ready for bed. He made quick work of changing into just a tee shirt and boxers, and crawled under his blankets, turned off the lamp on the bedside table, finally settling in with a hefty sigh.

He decided he would text Sherlock tomorrow. He had to text Sherlock tomorrow; he had so many questions. _Was_ Sherlock the anonymous tipper, who seemed to have a place in nearly every news article he found? If he was, why was Sherlock remaining anonymous? It didn’t make any sense to John why someone as obviously intelligent as Sherlock wouldn’t taking credit - hell, if he was honest, he was confused as to why Sherlock wasn’t simply _running_ the police force. He seemed to be doing as much from behind the scenes, if what John assumed to be true was in fact the case.

Tomorrow, he thought, as he closed his eyes and willed himself to get at least a few hours of decent sleep. He’d text Sherlock tomorrow.

Unfortunately, tomorrow didn’t arrive as quickly and as smoothly as the doctor would have liked.


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn’t uncommon for John to wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. The doctor would be lucky to go two nights in a row without incident; it seemed to happen nearly every night of the week.

This night was no exception.

Or, rather, this morning, John thought to himself with despair as he caught sight of the clock on his bedside table. The ex-army doctor sat up in his bed, his tee-shirt close to soaking with perspiration and clinging to his heaving chest, his vision swimming as he fought to regain some semblance of composure.

 _Just breathe_ , he reminded himself, and he closed his eyes tightly against the apparitions that danced through his agitated thoughts. Trembling hands fisted his mangled sheets while unsteady, shaking breaths passed between his lips as he forced himself to calm down. After a few long minutes of carefully-measured breathing in a feeble attempt to pacify his racing heart and mind, John swallowed thickly and dared to open his eyes again. His vision swam once more and he could almost taste the threat of nausea creeping its way up his throat, so he pried one hand away from his sheets, knuckles white from gripping and aching in protest as his fingers reluctantly released their firm hold on the duvet to fumble for the light switch on his bedside table lamp.

The soft, golden light that illuminated the small room did nothing to mollify John’s nerves as a shadow on the wall cast by a chair made his heart leap into his throat, the phantom screams of innocents from his dreams roaring in his ears with his frantic heartbeat.

“Okay, you’re fine,” he reassured himself with a choked-off breath, closing his eyes again and bringing his trembling hands up to his temples in a futile effort to stave off the impending headache that he knew would come; the migraines that plagued him after his nightmares rivaled the late mornings he awoke spectacularly hungover in university. He’d take the aftereffects of a night of binge-drinking over this misery any day.

Another minute of self-soothing went by before John concluded he may as well get up; the luminous, viridescent, digital numbers on his alarm clock flickered tauntingly at him, reading 04:27. Not much point in trying to sleep for a measly two hours longer. So he pushed his sheets aside, sweat-damp skin breaking out in gooseflesh when exposed to the tepid air of the room as he swung his legs over the side of his bed. His teeth bared against the violent surge of pain that shot up his right leg when he tried putting weight on it. Cursing silently under his breath, the doctor reached, resignedly, for the cane he kept tucked between his bed and his nightstand for situations such as this, and pushed himself off of the bed, gingerly adjusting his weight on his feet and leaning heavily on the cane for support.

Ever the true Englishman that he was, John’s immediate reflex, of course, was to make himself tea; because there was not a problem in the world that couldn’t be fixed by a good cuppa. Hobbling gingerly into the kitchen, his entire body trembling subtly, John determinedly focused on the mundane task of fixing tea as he put the kettle on to boil and fetched a tea bag and mug from their respective cupboards. It seemed that the therapeutic act of going through the familiar motions was working as, a few minutes later, John barely had to put any thought into not letting his hands shake as he poured steaming water into his prepared mug. After setting the kettle back on the stove, he picked up his mug with the hand not gripping his cane, and turned away from the counter, rather appeased, his nerves somewhat tamed.

And promptly fell to the floor.

The sounds of ceramic shattering, along with his wooden cane clattering against the linoleum floor, along with the piercing wail of the car alarm outside that had caused him to react in such a manner without even thinking, had John’s hands flying up to cover his ears as he huddled against the cabinet he’d fallen against.

“ _Fuck!”_ he exclaimed, disheartened and humiliated that a _car alarm_ was the cause of the prickling threat of tears behind his eyes, the bile rising in his throat, the tremour that seemed to stem from the marrow in his bones. The all-encompassing dread that he couldn’t help but feel, even though he knew it wasn’t right. He knew he was in his flat in London; but every alarm was an air raid siren. Every sudden bright light was a detonated IED. Someone dropped a heavy book on a table, and to him it was a flashbang.

He felt helpless.

What was, in actuality, mere minutes, felt to the doctor more like hours, before the car alarm outside stopped its high-pitched sonance, and John’s body slowly uncurled from the small bundle he’d worked himself into in the corner of his kitchen. The only sound now was the low hum of the refrigerator, the drone nearly deafening in the eerie silence of the flat. John’s weary, bloodshot gaze fell upon the shattered remains of his precious RAMC mug, translucent umber liquid surrounding the pearly, jagged bits decorating the cheap linoleum floor like an abstract sepia filter, and his adrenaline-addled mind likened the white porcelain to pieces of a skull, the macabre line of thought expanding to compare the brown fluid to blood, after oxygen concentration is reduced outside of the body and plasma is released. Almost.

Whether or not the porcelain shards actually looked like bone, and regardless of just how John drew a line between dried blood and tea, one thing was certain; it was going to be a very long day.

\---

“John, you’ve a walk-in.”

“Thanks, Rachel. Send them right in.”

Once Rachel nodded and was out of sight, John scrubbed his hands over his face in a vain attempt to coax himself into a state of more palpable wakefulness before his next client.

Despite the horrid start to his morning, John had managed to pull himself together, and, after cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, he’d forced himself to shower, choke down some food, and get ready for work. And while he had stumbled into the office a full two hours early, he considered it far better than sitting alone in his flat. That being said, he was longing for his bed at the moment; a feeling he’d tried diligently to fend off by downing a few cups of coffee over his lunch break. But that only gave him a bit of a twitch in his fingers for a while, and the crash that followed was arguably worse than his initial fatigue.

A look at his watch assured him that, in a few short hours, he would get to go home. No more scheduled appointments for the day. Maybe he would get lucky, and this walk-in would be his last--

“Dr. Watson.”

John didn’t think his mood had ever changed so drastically in such a short period of time before in his life, as it did when that familiar voice emanated from his doorway in a solemn greeting.

“Sherlock? Come in, come in,” the doctor ushered, a small, tired smile gracing his features as he stood politely to pull the door shut as Sherlock stepped inside the small office. He could feel the younger man’s steady gaze boring through him before he even turned around to look at the other. Sure enough, stormy, opalescent eyes met his own in a penetrating stare once he’d turned to face him; though, strangely enough, John found himself almost reassured by the solidity and sureness of it. His own smile softened, growing a fraction more genuine. “It’s good to see you.”

After a long moment, Sherlock’s chin lifted in acknowledgement before he finally tore his eyes away from John to strip off his long, sweeping, charcoal coat, and he took a seat in the chair he’d previously, wordlessly claimed as his own. When John took a seat in the chair opposite, the man spoke.

“You had a rather restless night.”

The statement was so blasé, John nearly laughed. It was also greatly under-exaggerated. “I look that much like shite, do I?” the doctor quipped, a tired smile stretching his lips. He knew better by now than to try to put up a mask with this young chemist; Sherlock would see right through it.

“No,” Sherlock responded, brows furrowing just slightly. “You just look… exhausted. Uneasy. You’ve had far too much coffee today, you had to use your cane to get to work, and you were shaking this morning; you nicked yourself with your razor,” he said, one long-fingered, pale hand coming up to ghost his fingertips over a spot on his own cleanly-shaven jaw.

John’s hand mirrored Sherlock’s, blunt digits sweeping over the spot where he was aware he’d cut himself early that morning - Sherlock had been right, of course, but John had figured, apparently rather foolishly, that no one would notice. “Mm. Yeah. Well, you’re right. Rough night,” John affirmed with a single nod. “But are we here to talk about me again? Or is there something in particular going on in your life that brought you back today?”

Hesitation. Sherlock pulled his lips between his teeth as he thought, and John took the few moments of silence to look Sherlock over.

Put-together as always, Sherlock sported his (surely designer) black trousers and silky button-up shirt beneath a fitted black blazer, and the suit served its purpose of portraying a composed and poised individual, but John peered past the facade. Sherlock looked tired. Not quite as disheveled as the first time he’d seen him, but definitely not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like he’d been in their second meeting, either. Though the younger man was certainly more relaxed in the doctor’s presence, which was great progress, in John’s eyes.

“I mentioned my drug usage,” Sherlock said finally, looking at John directly.

“Yes. You want to get clean,” John surmised.

The face Sherlock made gave the impression that he didn’t necessarily agree. “I wish to continue my work with New Scotland Yard. Lestrade is being annoyingly pompous and dogmatic with his preaching sobriety, and is threatening to cut me off. I don’t want to get clean. But drugs are interfering with my work. And my work is paramount.”

John pursed his lips lightly as he listened, and remained silent for a few long moments when Sherlock finished, just thinking quietly to himself. Finally; “how long have you been using drugs?”

“Of the nature I am currently using? Four years, eight months,” Sherlock answered decisively.

“And what are you using?”

“Cocaine. Occasionally heroin. Usually administered intravenously.” His responses, remarkably candid, were obtained without any goading from the doctor.

John let out a slow breath. “Tough stuff to be hooked on,” he said, and leaned back in his chair a bit, watching as Sherlock gave a mild shrug. “How did it start? Do you remember?”

Sherlock sat back in his chair and took what looked to be a fortifying breath, his eyes moving to look unseeingly towards an empty place on a wall. “Do you want to hear from the beginning?” he asked in a mumble.

“Whatever you’re willing to tell me,” John said gently. “Whatever you think might be important.”

Letting out an even, steady breath, Sherlock took a few moments to think, and John waited patiently, watching the younger man roll his wrists in a nervous sort of gesture. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak.

“I was introduced to cannabis in sixth form when the boy I shared a room with in the boarding house was an avid smoker. My first experience was uneventful, and I quickly found the culture around the consumption of marijuana, including binge-eating and discussing contemptible excuses for philosophical epiphanies all rather trite… I had been under the impression, previously, that intoxicants would aide in my… my desire to slow down.” Sherlock frowned at the blank wall as he finished.

“So you didn’t like the way it slowed you down?” John asked after a few beats of silence.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed and pursed his lips. “I found that I didn’t like to be slowed down at all.”

John nodded in understanding. “Alright. And I assume that’s where the cocaine came in.”

“First year of uni,” Sherlock affirmed, eyes trailing to look at something in the carpet by John’s chair. “Roommate was friends with a dealer.”

The inhale of breath that followed was decidedly not quite as steady as Sherlock’s breathing had been earlier. Clearly, thought John, Sherlock was recalling some not-altogether-pleasant memories, if the way his body had subtly tensed was anything to go by.

Sherlock cleared his throat lightly. “Sebastian- my roommate-” he elaborated with a glance at John “-he… he hated me. Everyone did.” His eyes returned to the carpet, so he missed the distressed look on John’s face. “His dealer would come to the dorm room from time to time, and I would make myself scarce; I elected to _not_ be in the room whilst they got high together, mostly because they engaged in more intimate exercises once they were finished,” he explained, eyebrows furrowed, features twisted slightly in mild, but clear distaste. “But also because, if what they were doing was anything like the drugs I had previously experienced, I didn’t want to be around for the display of idiocy that followed.”

John tilted his head slightly, inquisitive and curious expression overtaking his face. “What changed?”

“Victor came over and asked me to join them,” Sherlock replied simply.

“And Victor was…?”

“The dealer.”

“Ah.” John took a deep breath. “And so you joined them.”

Sherlock nodded. “At first I resisted, my reasoning being that I didn’t care for how inebriates slowed me down. They inquired as to what experience I had, and once I’d told them, they explained that what they were doing was nothing like marijuana. So, I tried it.”

Both doctor and patient fell and remained silent for almost a full minute, Sherlock looking as though he were deep in thought, and John just silently observing and giving Sherlock as much time as he needed to think.

“If it weren’t for your work,” John began after he felt the silence had stretched on long enough, “would you have a reason to get clean?”

“I’m- no,” Sherlock answered, but his tone was less than confident, and there was an almost conflicted look on his face.

“You mentioned before that you didn’t _want_ to get clean,” John recalled aloud.

Sherlock huffed a breath. “I _don’t._ ”

“Alright,” John conceded, “so why _don’t_ you want to get clean?”

The lost look on Sherlock’s face, along with the silence that accompanied it, gave John the impression that no one had ever asked that question before. It probably wasn’t something Sherlock gave much thought to.

“I-” Sherlock began, but stopped, and became visibly frustrated. “It helps me.”

That was debatable, John thought, but he’d allow it. “How?”

“It helps me to think.” Sherlock seemed much more confident now; like he’d regained his bearings. “I solved a case last month in six hours when it normally would have taken me two days.”

“Ah, but if you keep this up, you won’t be solving cases at all,” John reasoned, earning a glare from Sherlock.

“But I’m _better_ when I’m high.”

That wasn’t the first time John had heard that. In his many years of dealing with an alcoholic father and sister, they both claimed that they were happier when they drank; seeing the world through amber-coloured, hazy lenses almost constantly was far better for them than facing reality was. John was no stranger to the feeling, himself.

“That’s not an uncommon feeling,” the doctor began, and shifted forward in his chair. “The difference here, from what I’m gathering, is that the high has less to do with you physically _feeling_ better, and more to do with you actually _performing_ better. You believe it enhances your intellectual capacity.”

Sherlock looked like he was about to argue, but he paused a moment, before giving a slight nod. “It _does_ enhance my intellectual capacity,” he amended with a cautionary glare, as if daring John to challenge him.

And John, not one to back down, took the dare. “I reckon it doesn’t. Intoxicants don’t- they don’t do anything to _improve_ your brain. Drugs don’t make you _smarter._ I am a _doctor_ , I have three degrees in medicine, and I can confidently tell you that drugs do _not_ make you smarter.” He kept his voice firm, but still carrying a gentle edge. Sherlock remained silent, looking defiant. “Cocaine disrupts your neurotransmissions. That’s what drugs do. You’re a man of science; you know how the brain’s reward system works-”

“The mesolimbic dopamine system, yes,” Sherlock drawled with an eye-roll that rivaled the rudest of young, spoilt teenagers. “Obviously. Are you going to carry on about synapses and neurons and dopamine receptors? I didn’t know I was coming to _therapy_ for a bloody course on _cognitive neuroscience._ ”

“Sherlock,” John said, to which the younger man responded with an irritated huff. “I’m just trying to get you to understand that this is _exactly why_ people become addicted to drugs. They fancy themselves stronger, smarter, happier, more motivated, more sociable, more _everything_ , when they’re high. And they’re not. Sure, something can be said for the confidence boost you might get, but it doesn’t really change anything about you; and it _certainly_ doesn’t make you better. At anything.”

Sherlock stewed where he sat and remained silent, slim arms crossing over his chest as his eyes attempted to burn a hole through the door.

“Listen,” John said, changing the tone of his voice slightly in an attempt to allay the confrontational mood that charged the air in the room, “you’re a smart man. Arguably a genius.” He raised his eyebrows, and Sherlock huffed derisively. John continued. “I don’t know you all that well, but I can tell you’re strong-willed. You’re stronger than your addiction, Sherlock. Honestly, you are.” His lips curled into a gentle, almost fond smile. “And my job is to help you realise that.”

With a little reluctance, Sherlock’s eyes drifted back to meet with John’s, and there wasn’t nearly as much heat as John expected in those verdigris orbs. John’s smile grew.

“What qualifications do you have to help clients through addiction?” Sherlock inquired bluntly. “Besides your various degrees,” he elaborated with a flippant wave of one hand vaguely in the direction of the degrees hanging on the wall by John’s desk. His arm returned to cross over his chest with the other, but the stance was a bit less defensive now.

At the question, John’s smile softened, growing a touch somber. “I have a little personal experience with addiction.”

“Do you?” The question wasn’t sarcastic; Sherlock looked genuinely curious. “Besides living with an alcoholic brother?”

“Sister, actually,” John ammended. “I forgot to mention last time. She’s my sister.”

Sherlock hummed, his head tipping back slightly in a slow nod. “Sister. There’s always something,” he mumbled to himself, before fixing John with a focused stare once more. “Anyway. Your experience?”

John took a fortifying breath. “In Afghanistan, after I was shot… I don’t remember much, but apparently I dug the bullet out of my own shoulder,” he said, and watched Sherlock’s eyes widen a fraction. “After that, I drifted in and out of consciousness through the rescue and the airlift home, and the next few weeks of my life were, essentially, an arduous, drawn-out, miserable fever dream.” The tight smile that adorned the doctor’s features held no mirth. “It got infected. Horribly so. Nearly did me in; it was touch-and-go for a while…” His words trailed off and he shook his head before letting out a heavy sigh. “Anyway, when I was finally out of hospital, I was given morphine to help with the pain. And, well, I wasn’t in the best place, so… yeah. I abused prescription painkillers, got higher dosages that I didn’t need, spent my days blissfully drugged up and then drank myself into oblivion at night to try and avoid the nightmares.” The retellings of his own troubles spilled forth with little effort, as the ex-soldier had come to terms with his dismal reality long ago; but Sherlock, unexpectedly, seemed rather stunned.

“I-” the younger man paused, blinking a few times before clearing his throat. “I didn’t know. I mean, I had guessed about the night terrors, and the drinking, but-” Sherlock pursed his lips, just looking at John with a sort of renewed interest, like John was somehow now more intriguing. “I didn’t know,” he said again, a little softer.

John just grinned again. “Looks like we have a little common ground.”

Sherlock, in return, huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “It would appear so.” He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing just so. “What did you do?”

“I went to therapy.” John’s grin grew and was bordering on giddy as he gave his playful response. “And I listened to my therapist,” he added, and threw in a wink for good measure.

And it seemed to go over well, if the twitch at the corner of Sherlock’s lips was anything to go by; even if it was accompanied by a roll of his eyes. “Morphine isn’t cocaine. And you weren’t on it for over four years.”

“Touché,” the doctor acquiesced with a slight nod. “But it’s worth mentioning that I’m not _completely_ out of my depth, when it comes to dealing with patients struggling with addiction.”

“Mm.” Sherlock’s hum of agreement was followed by a brief silence, before the raven-haired detective spoke up again. “You said you listened to your therapist. What did your therapist tell you?”

John ruminated over his response for a few moments before answering. “I think these are different circumstances. I was dealing with prescription drugs that I had to monitor my intake of quite closely, and didn’t have to pay for, whereas you are dealing with a street drug that you can get any time as long as you have money. Is money an issue for you?” he asked.

The answer came in the form of a dismissive wave of Sherlock’s hand, followed by: “not at all. Though I don’t really pay most of the time.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but caught himself as the statement registered, and he just looked at Sherlock, the realisation of just what that meant blooming in his head. Apparently, his epiphany registered on his face as well, because Sherlock did a double-take when he looked back at him, and then shot John a withering glare.

“It’s not what you think, Doctor. Nothing _indelicate;_ just because I’m not paying with _money_ doesn’t mean I’m paying with my body,” he said, looking properly scandalised.

“You’re sure?” John asked cautiously.

“John,” Sherlock shot back, his tone and his gaze tenacious and resolute.

John gave a quick nod. “Right. Well. I’m glad.”

At that, Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “You’re _glad._ ”

For some inexplicable reason, John felt heat rush to his cheeks, though he did his best to ignore it. “What, I can’t be glad that my client isn’t putting himself in more physical danger?”

The smirk that appeared on Sherlock’s lips shouldn’t have looked as teasing as it did. “John, I’m shooting up with cocaine. I hardly think engaging in acts of _sodomy_ would be pushing the proverbial envelope.”

John just rolled his eyes. “Quite right,” he murmured, and sat back in his chair with a sigh. “Well, as far as advice goes for kicking your cocaine habit, if you’re looking for advice, first, I would recommend you to a therapist who is actually _trained_ in assisting addiction patients.”

“No,” Sherlock said, “I have no interest in seeking assistance from a rehabilitation centre, or from anyone affiliated with such a place.”

“I can’t force you to do so,” the doctor said with a hint of reluctance, “but may I ask why not?”

Sherlock fixed John with a look that John couldn’t quite decipher. “Because I have no interest in searching for another therapist when I have a perfectly acceptable one right here.”

When John didn’t respond straight away, Sherlock averted his gaze, the skin on his cheeks going pink.

“I- thank you,” John managed after another moment, genuinely touched by the statement.

“You’re the most agreeable therapist I’ve ever been forced to deal with,” the detective added, and John smiled at the odd compliment.

“Well I’m glad you find me agreeable. That bodes well,” he said with a soft chuckle, and when Sherlock looked back up at him with a faint smile of his own, John continued speaking. “So… Maybe we should start with a log. I’m not going to ask you to quit cold turkey, because that’s exceedingly difficult; especially when you’re going about quitting on your own. Not to mention it can be dangerous. If you’re not going to go into rehab, then we’ll need to take this one step at a time. Over the next week, or until I see you again, of course if you feel like you can start to wean yourself off, then do so. But if not, a detailed log of what you take and when you take it could be useful in putting your habits into perspective. Sometimes a physical representation of our indulgences helps give us a reality check. Do you think that’s something we could start with?”

Sherlock nodded. “A reasonable request,” he said, and sighed softly.

John’s smile broadened as he nodded back. “Brilliant. We’ll start there, then.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said, and then, apparently sensing an end to the appointment, rose from his seat. “I best be off,” he explained without prompting. “I’ve an interview to attend in an hour.”

“Oh?” John stood and reached for the door, holding it open for his client and following him into the waiting area.

“Mm; a young girl who claims her sister was murdered by a spotted rope,” he said, and apparently took great amusement in the look of confusion on John’s face. He chuckled, and then had mercy on the doctor, explaining further. “And immediately after, I have an interview with a man from Thailand who deals exotic pets, one of which is a spotted coral snake. Venomous, and certainly lethal to a young child.”

“ _Oh,_ ” John breathed, and laughed as he walked Sherlock out of the doors leading from the lobby to the hallway outside. “Dear Lord. What I wouldn’t give to lead a life like yours.”

“Please, your life hasn’t lacked excitement. You went to war,” Sherlock said.

John hummed in assent. “I suppose you’re right. My time has come and gone,” he said with a sigh. Sherlock looked as though he wanted to say more, but he remained silent as John opened the final set of doors for him that led outside. There, the doctor paused, remaining inside, but keeping the door open as Sherlock turned around where he stopped on the pavement just over the threshold.

“Um… I’ll be in touch,” the young man said, his raven curls catching the slight breeze and dancing agitatedly atop his head.

“Great. I’ll be here. And you have my number; I’m just a phone call away,” John added as casually as he could.

And with that, Sherlock gave a tight-lipped smile and a sharp nod, before turning and making his way down the walkway, and John looked on just long enough to see the man turn his collar up against the chill in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Just a heads-up regarding my update schedule; I am moving to one update per week, which will happen on Saturdays. Thanks for reading, and I hope to see you all back here next week.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Gratuitous depictions of drug-usage.   
> Be sure to check the tags periodically for updates as we move along in the story.  
> Onto the chapter! Thanks for reading!

Four days after his visit with John, Sherlock woke up on the threadbare carpet-covered floor of his flat, a sliver of too-bright afternoon light cutting across the length of the room from where it streamed in through the small gap in the curtains over his window. 

With a disgruntled groan, he lifted a hand, muscles aching in protest, to shield his eyes from the unwelcome glare of the sun, and remained on the floor until his body began making its incredible discomfort quite known in the throbbing aches in his arms, his back, his joints, his head. He muttered a curse and finally lowered his hand from his face, eyes shut tight against the light in the room as he used his forearms to push himself partially off the floor to a sitting position, where he slumped forward and held his head in his hands.

The crash was always the worst part.

Remembering that Victor had given him something to take to help with the unpleasant after-effects that he occasionally voiced his dissatisfaction for, Sherlock moved with renewed purpose, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet before shuffling across the floor to where his coat hung haphazardly over the back of a chair in the small kitchen. A subtly shaking hand fisted a pocket, fingers groping blindly before closing around the familiar shape of a prescription bottle, with something that felt like a shop receipt catching between his hand and the container as he pulled them both out. Ignoring the receipt for the time being, he squinted at the label on the small, translucent orange bottle:

_ Jeremiah G. Patterson _

_ Diazepam, 10mg _

Sherlock grumbled softly to himself as he opened the bottle and deposited a couple of the small, powder blue tablets into his palm. He was aware that valium was used in less severe cases of alcohol withdrawal, and the thought of alcohol brought with it unwittingly the image of a particular ex-army doctor-slash-therapist. A voice echoed through his throbbing skull,  _ ‘you are stronger than your addiction,’ _ to which Sherlock murmured a soporific “cheers” as he tossed back the small handful of pills. One hand reflexively swiped a previously-abandoned mug up off of the countertop, choking down the dregs of whatever hadn’t been finished to chase the pills down, and Sherlock’s lips curled with no small amount of revulsion as he pulled the mug away from his mouth, leaving the bitter taste of cold, day-old, over-steeped tea on his tongue. 

The ceramic clinked as Sherlock set the mug back onto the counter, a shudder running belatedly through him at the horrid aftertaste as he spun around, but the receipt, deposited and almost forgotten on the table, caught his attention. One hand reached out to take the folded paper between his fingers, and pieces of his foggy memory slotted back into place as he unfolded the small paper to find it wasn’t a receipt, but a sheet torn out of the small notepad he kept constantly on-hand in his coat for cases. His list.

One hand went idly up to his head, fingers pushing into his riotous, slightly-oily curls as his somnolent gaze traced over the substances and their measurements listed in tidy order near the top of the paper, and he felt as though he were witnessing his own deterioration from an outside perspective as his eyes trailed further down the list, watching the quality of his handwriting decline with every entry, each subsequent spider-like scrawl denoting his descent into delirium.

In retrospect, he thought as he ambled back into his small sitting room to deposit the note on his desk with the others he’d accumulated in the days since his visit with the doctor, he should have informed John that keeping a log of his usage would prove to be thoroughly ineffective; he’d been keeping lists for years.

He had managed to fool everyone who witnessed him scribbling down various drugs and measurements into a notepad like some crazed perfectionist that he needed to keep track of what he took on the off-chance that something didn’t agree with him. Although that wasn’t terribly far from the truth, never had he divulged the fact that he was doing it for his brother. After one rather frightful night about two months into Sherlock’s cocaine usage that found the then-university student in hospital for about a week after an accidental overdose, his elder brother had made Sherlock promise to keep a list detailing what substances he’d indulged in and how much of it, in case of an emergency; so that whenever the elder Holmes brother found him, Sherlock could be properly taken care of.

Ever since then, even as Sherlock strayed ever further away from the rest of his family, he kept lists. Not only was it a fulfilment of his part of the bargain with his sibling, but the act of dutifully keeping track of his intake gave Sherlock a sense of control that he felt comforted by; though he would never admit it, even to himself. The only difference with the lists now was that, instead of discarding them into the rubbish bin once he’d come down, he was stacking the sheets of paper, varying in size, on his desk, to take to his next meeting with the good doctor.

Sherlock shivered slightly in the cool air of his poorly-insulated flat; his silken button-up was undone, hanging open no doubt as a result of some mild hyperthermia during Sherlock’s high, the ghastly pale skin of his chest and abdomen exposed directly to the air, his sleeves unbuttoned, having been rolled up past his elbows. One of Sherlock’s hands twitched up to the opposite forearm to itch absently at a scab; he’d gotten a little less careful, a little more thoughtless with his needles later into the night - or had it been early in the morning? - and he sported more than a few bloodied marks. There were trace amounts of dried blood caked under the fingernails of his right hand.

He glanced indifferently down at his left arm; the right was by no means unscathed, but he was clearly dominant in his right hand, if the sheer number of scattered pinpricks decorating his left forearm gave any inclination as to which hand he favoured. His father had told him when he was small that if he ever desired a tattoo, that he should get it in a place that could be easily concealed by professional clothing. Now, possessing of two chemistry degrees and an unsteady occupational position with local police, his manner of dress was undoubtedly professional, but it wasn’t ink he was hiding. The spots that covered the insides of his arms weren’t unlike an inverted night sky, with small, dark spots adorning an otherwise-alabaster canvas, creating morbid constellations with faint veins connecting the dots under the skin like fibres of a macabre spiderweb.

He wondered absently how many IVs and shots John had been the recipient of whilst he recovered from his gunshot wound.

And then he wondered, with a hint of dawning self-consciousness, what John would think when he saw the lists.

Last night had been particularly… excessive. It had started with cocaine, as per; then Victor coaxed Sherlock into speedball, and then one of Victor’s friends brought some self-made methamphetamine, and Sherlock didn’t have a clear recollection of what all had happened. It wasn’t often that he awoke on the floor of his own flat. But he was intact, he wasn’t injured, and he was alive. His clothes were still (mostly) on, a brief self-evaluation of his own vitals implied he was in decent shape… he was fine. However, the list he’d created the night previous had been the most extensive and diverse one for months. And he wasn’t quite sure what to think about it.

Without warning, Sherlock’s stomach roiled for lack of food, and the young man groaned as the pain in his gut, accompanied by the relentless pounding in his head and full-body aches, had his legs nearly giving out beneath him. He stumbled back to the kitchen where he collapsed into a chair, reaching unthinkingly across the table for two small bags filled with fine white powder, his other hand reaching for his bunsen burner, which he pulled towards him. The contraption had been rigged to hold a small, metal bowl above the open flame, with which Sherlock occasionally cooked small, single batches of heroin; these occurrences were limited only to when he didn’t have cocaine, and when he was desperate. And at the moment, the impatient chemist wasn’t willing to wait for the valium to do whatever Victor seemed to think it was going to do. He hurt all over, and he needed a hit.

Sherlock grabbed a half-empty pack of cigarettes from one of his coat pockets and drew a smoke out of the pack by the butt, before lighting it cooly with the bunsen burner and extinguishing the small, gas-fueled flame for the time being. He took a long drag, letting himself imagine that he could still feel the burn at the back of his throat, that he could still feel the sensation of the nicotine high that hit after the first drag, that he could still taste the bitter tobacco on his tongue. The smoke that was expelled on his relieved exhale hung in the air like miniature, low-level cirrus clouds, slowly dissipating. Letting the fag hang from his lips, both of Sherlock’s hands moved to nimbly snatch up the two small, clear baggies of white powder; one filled with heroin, the other containing citric acid. He needed no assistance from measuring instruments, as his practised, chemists eye aided him in pouring near-accurate amounts of each substance, with the addition of a small amount of water from a nearby water bottle, into the small, metal bowl over the bunsen burner, which he then ignited.

His elbows came to rest on the table as he slouched forward, one hand supporting his chin while the other took his cigarette from his lips, releasing another plume of thick, light-grey smoke. The cloud of wispy grey steadily grew more dense with each exhale, looming low in the air above his head like a smoggy halo adorning his curly, dark crown. The fluorescent light bulb that hung bare from the ceiling was long overdue for a change-out, and it showed in the soft, exhausted buzz and the mild flickering of the light as the worn-out bulb struggled to put out its required 32 watts of power, the whole of the bleak scene looking as dour as Sherlock’s mood.

When the white powder had nearly finished dissolving into the water in the metal bowl, the mixture turning a sort of sandy blond colour and bubbling viciously, Sherlock turned off the flame and took the fag end of the cigarette from between his lips. He snuffed the smoldering end on the table, uncaring of the fact that the action left a small, black smudge on the oak surface, and then set about peeling the orange-coloured paper off from around the small cotton filter, tinged light brown by the tobacco. Once the filter had been extracted, Sherlock dropped it into the small bowl and grabbed a syringe from the small pile of them he’d accumulated on his table. All previously used by himself, and, of course, sterilized. 

The tip of the hypodermic needle, he dipped into the still-simmering solution, and stirred it up a little, before bringing his other hand up to stabilize the syringe while the fingers of his other hand pulled back the plunger, drawing the murky, dark gold liquid through the cotton filter.

Muscle memory took over, and he held the loaded syringe in his left hand, and tugged his shirt sleeve up with his right. The fingers of his right hand then moved to flick at the glass syringe, keen eyes watching the accumulation and dissipation of small air bubbles swirling around in the liquid before he brought the needle to his arm. 1.27cm of cold, stainless steel pierced his skin between two dark marks, expertly piercing the Median cubital vein. 1cc of fluid in the syringe, containing only about 10mg of actual heroin, cast a golden glow on the skin under it as the dim light hanging from the ceiling shone through it. The heady scents of cigarette smoke and hot metal lingered in his nostrils.

He only realised his fingers were shaking as he was pushing down on the plunger.

\---

 “Is this…”

“What?”

 “...Normal?”

The expression on the doctor’s face might have been irritating if Sherlock didn’t feel so strangely enamoured by the smaller man’s sincere and obvious concern. “Not necessarily.”

John was pursing his lips in that way he did when he had something to say, but didn’t want to say it. His ocean-blue eyes flicked back down to where he was holding a small handful of papers; seventeen between the two tanned and calloused hands, all varying in size and length. The therapist’s shoulders rose and fell with a noisy breath before he straightened a bit in his chair, and Sherlock, respectively, relaxed back in his own. John’s lips parted in preparation to speak, but Sherlock, sensing the question before it was vocalised, provided an answer.

“No cases on. Nothing interesting. I had to occupy myself somehow.” 

The quirk of one eyebrow from John was almost amusing in its skepticism. “You know, most people just… pick up hobbies. Fishing. Stamp-collecting.”

Sherlock huffed a soft laugh. It was a week, to date, since the last time he’d been in. He had sent a text to John when his lunch hour started, instructing him to stay in his office without explanation, and he refused to elaborate when the doctor had asked for reasoning. But Sherlock was pleased when he arrived in the office with two paper cups of tea and a takeaway bag, to find the receptionist gone, and John lingering anxiously near the entrance. Now, the detritus of their small lunch; two empty cups in their thin cardboard sleeves and a bag with a crumpled wrapper, napkin, and emptied bag of crisps, decorated the therapist’s desk. John had, of course, insisted that Sherlock eat what he’d bought, but Sherlock made it clear he wouldn’t be eating.

Eventually, they settled when John’s stomach rumbled tellingly, Sherlock reluctantly agreed to eat the crisps, and John insisted on buying Sherlock tea some other time.

Sherlock tried (and failed) not to be too pleased at the prospect of John buying him tea at a later date.

“I’m not one for stamp-collecting,” Sherlock said with a small grin, “though my father did attempt to interest me in fishing when I was young.”

John looked intrigued. “Did he? And how did that go?”

Sherlock gave a half-shrug. “I spent the entire time attempting to collect tadpoles in a small cup. My efforts proved dismally futile,” he recounted with a melodramatic sigh, and John grinned.

“From tadpoles to-” he shook his head down at the lists in his hands “-eight grams of cocaine and five grams of heroin in a week.” The doctor looked back up at Sherlock, and Sherlock had half a mind to feel guilty. Almost. “Just a touch excessive, don’t you think?”

“I’ve seen worse,” the detective said with a calculated, dismissive flick of his fingers.

“As have I,” John rejoined with a pointed look. “But that doesn’t excuse this.” He gestured once again to the lists, before setting them aside on his desk, and readjusting himself in his chair with a soft sigh. “Regardless, thank you for keeping track. I’m glad you’re at least taking initiative here.” The praise in his voice was almost painfully sincere.

Sherlock felt a mild twinge of something that he might have called guilt, at the suggestion that he was doing this simply because John had told him to. “Yes, well,” he said on a forced breath, and gave a nod. “Doctor’s orders, and all that.” He gave a tight smile that felt all too fake, but John didn’t seem to notice; and if he did, he didn’t mention it.

Instead, the doctor smiled softly, that almost-fond tilt of his head thing happening again. “I’m proud of you. It’s a good step in the right direction.” He glanced back at the lists again. “Did you feel strange, writing it all down?” he asked, gaze finding Sherlock’s again. “Is it much different for you, keeping numbers down physically like that to look back at later?”

In truth, while Sherlock did keep the lists solely to respect his brother’s wishes, he  _ hadn’t _ kept any of the lists for an extended period of time before. “I-... I suppose,” he said, brows furrowed slightly, and the words came out feeling more truthful than he’d intended for them to. “It’s… different.” He reached forward then, unexpectedly, to take the lists off of the desk, and fan them out in his hands.

They were all dated, some of them including times. Most were written on paper from the small pad inside his Belstaff, while others were jotted down on the back of takeaway receipts, or tube tickets, or in the margins of newspaper clippings; some written in black ink, some in blue, and one even in red. All of them penned in his own familiar spidery scrawl, some of the entries clearly made sober, while others were made after-the-fact. He wondered if John noticed. 

Upon glancing back up, Sherlock found John looking at him curiously. “I’ve not kept lists like this before.” Not untrue. He always threw them away after; never had he let them stack up like this. “Seeing everything cumulatively, with physical representation…” His voice trailed off.

“It would probably be effective to gather the same amount of drugs you’ve consumed throughout the week and set them before you, but we can’t do that, for obvious reasons,” the doctor quipped with a mild smirk. “As long as your measurements are accurate, this is a good alternative method. Just to put things into perspective a bit.”

“I don’t normally do quite this much,” Sherlock murmured in an unexpected and feeble attempt to justify himself; for what, he didn’t really know. He frowned lightly at the lists in his hands. He never really kept track. Since finances weren’t an issue, he’d never had to pace himself.

“What about frequency?”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock looked back up at John, his frown deepening.

The small smile he got in return, calm and reassuring, was infuriating. “Frequency. How often do you normally indulge? Do you wait a few days between hits, or just… binge once a week? Or do you normally try to stay at a near constant state of intoxication?”

Ah. “Oh. I- I can’t be high whilst on cases,” the young detective explained, “or, rather, I can’t get caught. But I don’t really  _ need _ to be high on cases. Of course, I perform better-” he ignored the narrow-eyed look John gave him “-but at least the cases give me something to focus on. I try to keep myself intoxicated at a near-constant level outside of cases to battle the stagnation.”

“The stagnation… and the withdrawal symptoms.”

Sherlock remained pointedly quiet.

John took a breath. “I generally find- and this is my  _ personal _ opinion -that addiction has less to do with the volume of substances consumed, and more to do with the frequency. So, someone who’s indulging in a little bit almost every day is essentially worse off than someone who’s binging once a week, or a couple times a month.” The doctor shrugged. “But that’s just an opinion of my own. Obviously in both cases, the goal is to get the patient to not be dependent on drugs at all. But I digress.”

Sherlock nodded and hummed softly in agreement, before he caught himself, and shot John a look. “But I’m not dependent on anything.” Despite how adamant he was, Sherlock felt his resolve crack under the doctor’s steady, knowing gaze.

“Mm.” John clearly didn’t agree, the small smile on his lips almost playful. “Well. If you’re not dependent on anything, then this next step should be a  _ breeze. _ ”

“Next step?” Sherlock questioned cautiously.

“Mmhm; we’re going to try to wean you off. If you’re still refusing to go to proper rehabilitation centres-- I’ll take that as a yes,” the doctor said after looking up to find Sherlock glaring furiously at him, “then this is going to be something you’re doing on your own. Or,  _ mostly _ on your own.” 

The way John looked at him, with his gentle smile and sincere kindness in his eyes, made Sherlock’s stomach churn in a not-altogether-unpleasant way.

“You have my number,” John continued. “So you’re not alone. Not really. If you haven’t got any family around here that you can count on for support, no friends that you trust to keep you away from drugs… Just ring me. Anytime you like. I’m being serious,” he urged. 

And Sherlock believed him. He offered a small smile. “You’ll be the first I consult, doctor, in the event that I find myself in need of assistance.”

“I hope you do. Really.” John smiled again and then glanced down at his watch with a small huff. “Well. I hate to kick you out, but I have an appointment scheduled in… ssssseven minutes,” he drawled, and rose to standing. 

Sherlock watched idly as John moved about the small space, tossing the remains of their small lunch and their emptied cups into the rubbish bin beside his desk. 

“Thank you again, for the lunch and the tea.” Were all of John’s smiles so frustratingly warm and sincere? “I was serious when I said I’d pay you back. Let me know next time before you stop in, and I’ll get tea for both of us. Or if you happen to call me outside of office hours, we can pop into a cafe or something,” he suggested, and it was innocent enough, but the touch of warmth that tinged John’s cheeks pink seemed inexplicably contagious, as Sherlock’s cheeks grew the slightest bit warm as well.

“Not a problem. And I will be in touch,” Sherlock assured as he, too, stood, and made for the door, which John opened for him. He had intended to linger at the door for a few minutes longer, if only to stave off the impending solitude - he actually sincerely enjoyed the man’s company - but there was another young man sitting in the lobby, who looked up at the sound of the door opening.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to him - light brown hair disheveled and unkempt, hand-me-down shirt and jacket, old jeans, fingertips stained dark yellow from nicotine. The lad was a university student in his first or second year struggling to handle the course-load, but blamed his problems on his rocky relationships with his girlfriend - obvious from the state of his backpack and shoelaces - and was struggling through an identity crisis as he had an infatuation with his male roommate. Dull. Predictable. Boring.

The young man tried to avoid Sherlock’s eyes as he stood and made his way to John’s door, while Sherlock shot daggers at the other with his. Upon turning back around, though, Sherlock’s sudden and unexplainable contempt was assuaged, as he saw the change in John’s overall demeanour. His smile when he greeted the other young man was tighter, a touch forced - not that anyone else would know, but Sherlock noticed. He grinned smugly to himself as John held the door open for his client.

“Go ahead and have a seat, Charlie. I’ll be in in just a moment.” John lingered in the doorway after Charlie disappeared behind him, and his features relaxed as his eyes fell upon Sherlock again. “So. I’ll… see you,” he said, a touch awkwardly.

Sherlock smiled. “Goodbye, John.”

“Goodbye.”

As Sherlock turned away and saw himself out, he could almost feel the lingering gaze of the doctor on him even after he’d left the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought Sherlock deserved a chapter from his own point of view.  
> I won't spoil anything, but we'll run into much more EXCITING stuff starting next Saturday. Stay tuned for the next update!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my tardiness in posting; I would list excuses, but I'll spare you all and just say that my work schedule was unkind to me this week. I will take the necessary precautions to ensure that all future updates are on time. Thanks so much for your understanding. <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It was customary for the clinic to be closed on weekends. The hours posted on the clinic’s website, which were also included on the business cards, showed as much. Which was why John was a little surprised to receive a text from none other than Sherlock Holmes the Saturday following their last visit.

_ Requesting an appointment. -SH _

John quirked a brow at his mobile.  _ Office isn’t open today, Sherlock. -JW _

The reply came immediately.  _ Fine then; you owe me tea. -SH _

The smile that appeared on John’s face only widened when another message came through swiftly after.

_ 7 Upper St. Martin’s Ln. Twenty minutes. -SH _

As demanding as the request was, John couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed, but instead found himself enthusiastically rooting through his closet for a better jumper; because the cream-coloured cable-knit he had donned that morning clearly wasn’t fit for tea with Sherlock Holmes. 

_ I’ll be there. -JW _

\---

He was four minutes early. 

It was absolutely ridiculous just how impossibly long four minutes could stretch; but it seemed that each moment that went by where John  _ didn’t _ see a telltale mop of unruly curls was a small eternity. 

The doctor toyed with the sleeves of the deep blue jumper poking out from under the cuffs of his shooting jacket as he made a feeble effort to occupy himself with his surroundings; the midday sun just barely broke through the dense clouds, the usual overcast skies plaguing London as per. Passerby bustled past the doors of the small shop on their way down the sidewalk, most noses buried in mobile phones, some hands in the air as the occasional pedestrian attempted to hail a cab at the kerb. The foot-traffic ran smoothly, as it tended to do in large cities where the natural flow of life just sort of happened. 

So lost was he in his observations, that he nearly jumped at the sudden presence that drew up to his side and loomed over him. 

“Doctor. You’re early.”

John looked up and blinked, a touch surprised at how close Sherlock had come to stand. He didn’t fight the small smile that crept its way onto his face, and he hummed softly as he turned around to open the door of the shop. “Don’t peg me as eager; I just caught a rather fast cab,” he quipped, and grinned at Sherlock as he held the door open for him.

Sherlock smirked back as he entered, and led the way to a booth seat by a large window. “Of course, John,” he murmured, and John tried very hard not to focus too much on the liquid-velvet voice. 

“So. Tea,” John said after he cleared his throat, and his eyes fixed on Sherlock after they had both gotten settled in their seats. “Do you… actually want tea? Or did you need to talk about something?” At the confused look he received from the dark-haired chemist, John elaborated. “You said you were requesting an appointment.”

“Oh.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a flippant gesture with one hand, before letting his blasé gaze drift over the interior of the café. “Neither, really. I merely needed company. Though I suppose we  _ should _ get tea to avoid looking suspicious,” he said quietly with a frown.

To which John started. “Suspicious? Why would we look--” he suddenly went still, eyes widening and darting from side to side, though as subtle as possible in an attempt to look inconspicuous (which he completely failed at, if the rather chastising look Sherlock gave him was any indication). “What are we doing here?” he asked in a rushed whisper.

“John, relax.” Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard John was surprised the lad didn’t have a constant headache. “I needed company to avoid attention. Less attention will be drawn to two men sitting together, than there would be to a man sitting on his own.”

“Right,” John murmured, sounding quite dubious, and not the least bit assuaged. “And why can’t you be looking suspicious in a coffee shop?” His posture did relax a bit, however, oddly, at the instruction to relax from Sherlock.

The younger man met John’s eyes. “I’m working. Technically.” The coy smile that curled Sherlock’s lips sent John’s stomach flipping in a not-unpleasant way, but as he opened his mouth to respond, they were interrupted.

“Can I get you two gentlemen anything today?”

John looked up at the young girl standing before their table, in an apron and holding a notepad,  fiery red hair pinned back in a casual, messy bun. She smiled in turn at John and then at Sherlock, and John smiled back. “Oh. I’ll… have you got Earl Grey?”

The girl smiled charmingly, shifting her weight and cocking one hip, head tilting. “Course we’ve got Earl Grey,” she said, a light chuckle laced into her tone, and she jotted something down in her notepad. “I’ll fetch you a cuppa. Any fixings?” she asked sweetly.

“No, that’s fine. Black is fine,” John said, matching her smile. “Thank you, love,” he finished in his customary farewell for women; a habit he’d formed back in the military that seemed to go over well with most women, before looking back at Sherlock -- who, to John’s surprise, suddenly looked quite solemn.

“And for you-”

“Coffee. Black, two sugars,” Sherlock interrupted, looking aloof and indifferent, just another posh, rude bastard; but John could see the storm brewing behind the facade.

“Right. I’ll have your drinks out to you shortly,” the girl said, and, bless her heart, she didn’t look terribly shaken by Sherlock’s crass tone. John shot her an apologetic smile and mouthed another ‘thank you,’ and she smiled back in understanding, though she looked between the two of them strangely before she disappeared. 

With the waitress gone, John looked back at Sherlock with a frown. “What?”

“Hm?” Sherlock inquired innocently from where he was staring out the window.

John just rolled his eyes. “What’s  _ wrong _ ?” he pushed. “A minute ago you were fine, now you’ve gone and turned into a stroppy teenager.”

The provocation worked, if the flash in Sherlock’s eyes as the younger man looked back at John was anything to go by, but soon enough, Sherlock’s posture changed yet again, as the young chemist leaned forward onto the table, eyes flicking down over the upper half of John’s body that could be seen above the table, before he spoke. “She’s a compulsive cheat.”

John nearly got whiplash.  _ “What?” _ he hissed, looking around frantically to be sure no one had heard. “Lower your voice,” he said in a frustrated, hushed tone, fixing Sherlock with a stern look. “What the  _ hell _ are you talking about?”

“Our waitress,” Sherlock responded, in a tone at a volume that had John shushing him again. “She’s cheating on her boyfriend. Good news if you’re looking for a hookup; bad news if you’re looking for commitment,” he said with a shrug.

Horrified that Sherlock would even  _ suggest _ such a thing, John’s shoulders slumped and he looked at Sherlock as if the other had suggested they both go and commit arson. “What in the  _ hell _ are you on about?” he asked, thoroughly confused.

Sherlock, in response, rolled his eyes. “Please, John. Anyone with eyes can see when you are interested.”

John’s blood ran cold at first, fearful at the implication that he was so easy to read. But then he frowned, because he  _ wasn’t _ interested. Not in the waitress, anyway. Sure, she was pretty, but she was young, and while the way she smiled at him warmed his heart, John knew that she probably smiled at everyone like that. Part of customer service. “Clearly you can’t, then,” he rejoined, “because I’m  _ not _ interested- in her,” he quickly added, and Sherlock frowned. 

“You looked at her like she held the world,” Sherlock said with a scoff.

“Well she’s fetching my tea, so yes, I quite like her at the moment. But I’m not going to try to- no. No.” John shook his head. “Jesus.”

Sherlock’s raised eyebrow almost made John flinch. “Why not? It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”

The doctor frowned heavily. Was Sherlock just trying to get a rise out of him? “Not that it’s  _ any _ of your business,” he shot the younger man a glare, “but no, it hasn’t been all  _ that _ long. Ta. Now if you wouldn’t mind  _ changing the subject _ -”

“Here you are!” The waitress materialised beside their table holding their drinks, and she deposited them onto the table with a smile at both of them; though she looked longer at John. “Anything else I can get for you?”

John wouldn’t admit it, but he knew that the smile he gave her this time was tighter, more forced. “No, I think we’re fine for now. Thank you,” he said, and looked away as she nodded and took her leave.

Sherlock was looking at him with a small smirk that looked almost triumphant. John scowled. “Since you’re so proddy, my turn; what about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”

While he wasn’t necessarily expecting a negative as a response, he couldn’t say he was surprised at the eye-roll he received. “Doctor, do you really think a significant other would willingly put up with my drug habits?”

John shrugged. “Sure. In the right circumstances, if they were supportive enough of you, if they loved you enough, then yes. Absolutely.”

Sherlock’s face twisted into a disdainful grimace, and he shook his head. “No. No girlfriend. Not really my area, anyway.” The statement was innocent enough, but John noticed a guarded expression take over Sherlock’s features.

“... Oh.” He carefully, softly cleared his throat. “Do you- I mean. Are you- do you have- um. A boyfriend?” 

The look Sherlock gave him was even, inquisitive, and carefully, measuredly mild.

“Which is fine, by the way-”

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock interrupted, and then fell quiet again.

They were both quiet for a few long moments. “So you haven’t got one.”

“Not at the moment, no,” Sherlock said, and John gave a small smile.

“But you’ve had them before?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “No. Never really had the desire or the ambition required to attempt to survive the tedious courting process.”

John laughed, relieved that the tension that had formed had somewhat dissipated. “Yeah, that’s- yeah. I can sympathise. People think men are more direct and therefore easier to enter into relationships with; but it’s not true. It’s not a difference between sexes, it’s a difference between individual people.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow raised slightly. “And you know this from personal experience?”

Normally a subject John would be reluctant to discuss with someone he barely knew was now something that he didn’t mind discussing at all. “A bit, yes,” he divulged with a small smile.

And Sherlock smiled in return. “Hm. I’ll keep it in mind.”

John forced himself to realise that Sherlock was talking about the fact that the ‘tedious courting process’ was present in the pursuit of relationships with both men and women, and not the fact that John himself had personal experience with relationships with both men and women. He cleared his throat and picked up his tea, in its paper cup with the thin cardboard sleeve, and blew over the surface of the steaming liquid before taking a tentative sip.

Sherlock mirrored the action with his coffee.

After a long pause, John spoke again. “So. Am I just here to pay you back for the tea? Or are we having an appointment?”

“I told you; I’m working,” Sherlock said. “We could consider this your paying my back, but I really just needed someone not entirely annoying to fill the empty space across from me.”

Strangely warmed by the odd compliment, John smiled rather quirkily. “Mm. Well I’m glad you find me… less than entirely annoying,” he said, to which Sherlock responded with a slight smile, and a soft hum. “But what are you working on? Is this a case?” the doctor asked, his voice going quiet, tone taking on a conspiratorial edge. 

Sherlock leaned a touch closer over the table. “The owner of this establishment has requested… protection,” he began explaining. “There have been a number of burglaries throughout London within the past few weeks; I’m sure you’ve heard of them,” he said, and John nodded. “Well, New Scotland Yard has been flailing about in a feeble attempt to apprehend those responsible. Of course, it’s gang-related, but they won’t listen to me,” he said with an eye-roll and a dismissive wave of one hand. “Anyway, the owner of this shop has come to me, specifically, asking for help, because New Scotland Yard are too busy trying to find the robbers, and are not focusing on  _ preventing _ more robberies-” the tone of his voice conveyed clear annoyance “-so the owner feels threatened. Therefore, I am here to assist him in preventing his shop from being robbed.”

John frowned. “That… okay, how are  _ you _ going to protect his shop being robbed?”

“I’m not,” Sherlock responded with a small smile as he took another sip of his coffee.

“This doesn’t make sense,” John murmured, thoroughly confused, and Sherlock chuckled.

“I’ll merely catch the culprits in the act of robbing the shop. But that’s not the interesting bit about this particular case. Listen to this; I have reason to believe that the man who runs this shop was previously affiliated with the gang committing the robberies.”

John’s eyes widened. “And you’re  _ helping _ him?”

“Well he’s not doing anything wrong  _ now _ , is he? He’s just running a shop. Hardly going about and killing people. Of course, if he’s doing something  _ wrong, _ then I’ll turn him in. But if he’s truly not affiliated with them anymore, then I will ‘help him protect his shop’ and catch the robbers in the process, thereby solving Lestrade’s pathetic case for him, yet again.”

Letting out a slow breath, John shook his head. “Do you always solve the cases at the Yard for them? Do you  _ never _ take credit?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t want to take credit. Too much publicity would make for bad business. Remaining in the shadows so people don’t expect me coming for them is paramount in my profession.”

John thought a moment, realising that that made some amount of sense; that explained why Sherlock’s name was never in any news reports. “So you’re the anonymous tipper, then.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock frowned. 

“In the papers. And on all the news websites, in all of the articles. There’s always an anonymous tipper. Is that you?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded. “Yes. It’s… easier for the Yard to explain their miraculous leads by saying that someone tipped them off. I suppose that even if they  _ wanted _ to give me credit, which they don’t, they couldn’t; Lestrade would find himself in a spot of trouble if his superiors knew that a drug addict was assisting them on nearly every moderately-difficult case that came their way.”

John just looked at Sherlock for a long moment. “Do you ever  _ want _ credit?” he asked.

“This isn’t an actual therapy session, Doctor,” Sherlock murmured, looking out the window again.

John was about to speak again, when the waitress, with her impeccable timing, stepped up to their table. “How are we doing?” she asked in her sing-songy voice.

“Just fine,” Sherlock said, and fixed the young girl with a piercing gaze. “Is Mr. Blessington in today?” he asked plainly, and the girl’s face paled.

“Um- y-yes, he’s… hold on a moment,” she said timidly, and scurried away to speak with someone behind the bar, the both of them disappearing into the back room.

“Who’s Mr. Blessington?” John asked, slightly bewildered.

“The owner,” Sherlock responded simply, and John didn’t have the chance to ask any more as a large man with short, cropped brown hair and an earpiece approached their table.

“Hello,” the man said, a heavy Russian accent coming through his slow words, “is there any way I can help you gentlemen today?” he asked. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him. “I have business with Mr. Blessington. Is he in today?”

“What business do you have?” the man asked, and John merely sat there, looking back and forth between the two. 

“Business of a professional and delicate nature,” Sherlock said, and lowered his voice. “And I don’t think Mr. Blessington himself would appreciate a scene being made in the front of his shop, when we could very easily just go and see him. So if you could please let us go and speak with him, that would be lovely.”

The large man looked over to John, who tried not to look as confused as he felt, before huffing a breath and standing back from the table. “Right through those doors, down the hallway, last door on your left,” he said, before walking away to stand by the bar.

Sherlock watched him go before he looked at John, his expression triumphant. “Right, then. Let’s go,” he said, and stood, leaving his coffee behind.

“Wh-wait! What?” John sputtered as he stood, hurrying to follow. “You want  _ me _ coming with you?” he asked in a rushed whisper, trying not to draw attention as he caught up with the detective.

“Who better to have at my side than a soldier, should something go awry?” Sherlock asked, sounding almost chipper.

“An ex-soldier with a shite shoulder and a gimp leg,” John murmured back, and he glanced over to where the Russian man was sitting at the bar, watching them menacingly. John had half a mind to stick his tongue out at him.

“You’re walking just fine,” Sherlock said, gaining his attention again, and John merely made a sound of acknowledgement as they pushed through the wooden door at the back of the café, and made their way down the hallway. Before they got to the door at the end of the hallway, John reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat.

“Wait,” he said quietly, and Sherlock spun around with a confused expression. “What- what do I do?” John asked. “I mean, are we here to intimidate this guy? Do you want me to grill him? Or just… stand there and look pretty?”

Sherlock cracked a grin. “I’ll do the talking. You simply fill the role of my partner.”

John’s eyebrows raised. “Partner.”

“ _ Colleague, _ ” Sherlock amended with a heavy eye-roll, to which John responded with an amused grin.

“Right. Do you… do you want me to take notes or something?”

Sherlock huffed slightly and reached into the inside pocket of his long black coat, pulling out a small notepad and a pen. “There. If that makes you feel more useful, go ahead.”

Content, John nodded and looked towards the door, tucking the notepad into his pocket. “After you, then.”

The detective gave a sharp nod before approaching the door and knocking thrice upon the wooden surface. 

“One moment!” came a gruff voice from inside, followed by a few huffs and heavy footfalls, before the door swung open. The man on the other side of the threshold looked rough. A stark contrast in every way from Sherlock’s clean-cut, lithe form, the other man looked quite drab in the grease-stained, off-white shirt that clung to his swollen belly, his trousers loose around his short legs. His face was drawn long and weary, clearly having not shaved in several days, leaving behind a patchy, dark scruff, and the light auburn hair atop his head was in disarray - though not the stylish sort of disarray that Sherlock’s was. “Mr. Holmes!” the man said, and then hobbled aside to let Sherlock in. “Come in, come in!”

John followed Sherlock into the room, receiving a cautious look from the man whom he could only guess was the Mr. Blessington Sherlock had spoken of earlier, and came to stand next to Sherlock in the centre of the room. Sherlock was looking around at the room itself, paying no attention to the clearly-distressed man who was shutting and locking the door behind them, and John, in an effort to look busy, fished his notepad out of his pocket.

The first thing he saw when he flipped back the thin leather cover, was a list. Much like the lists he’d received from Sherlock days ago; dated to two days prior, with a short list of substances. He felt a pang in his chest and realised he was grimacing when he felt Sherlock’s eyes on him, and he quickly flipped past the list and past a few pages of scribbled notes before coming to a clean page. He looked back up at Sherlock, to find the detective looking at Mr. Blessington, and John’s eyes followed suit. 

“Mr. Holmes,” the man started, hobbling over to sit in the chair behind the large, oak desk in the room. He huffed as he sat, his breath coming out raggedly. “I got yer message, that you’d be comin’,” he said, accent sounding nearly Scottish. John took a moment to make a few deductions of his own that he thought might be important.

_ Breathing patterns, accompanied by rash exposed below tee-shirt sleeves -- asthma. _

He made a note in the notepad.

“And yet you seem surprised,” Sherlock said with an audible frown.

“Ah, didn’t know you’d be bringin’-- comp’ny,” the man said, and John looked up, then at Sherlock.

“He’s my partner. Anything you have to say to me, may be said in front of him. All confidential,” Sherlock assured, and John had to stifle a smile of gratitude, forcing himself to look back at the large man behind the desk.

“Right,” the man said, before clearing his throat of an apparently hefty amount of phlegm. He sniffed.

_ Allergies? Postnasal drip? Smoking. _

Of course, smoking; there was an ashtray on the desk, and the room reeked. John made a note.

“You contacted me early this morning,” Sherlock said, and stepped away from John, starting to slowly meander around the room. “You said it was urgent. Care to elaborate, now that we’re talking in person, as you so adamantly insisted?”

“Shh!” Blessington leaned forward in his chair and flailed his arms. “Please, Mr. Holmes, the walls ‘ere ain’t thick.” He looked around, almost crazed. “Please. I-I’ve taken precautions, hired help--” He pursed his lips tightly, and looked at the door.

“The man with the earpiece?” Sherlock asked. “Russian?”

Blessington nodded. “Yeah. He an’ ‘is brother- they’re jus’ a added measure of security, y’know, to catch anyone lookin’ off. Before they rob me,” he said.

John’s brow creased, and he hid it by pretending to write in the notepad. If he hadn’t known that this man was previously involved with the gang responsible for the thefts around London, he’d be suspicious at just how concerned the man was about being robbed, and just how nervous he was. 

“Not a bad idea, I suppose,” Sherlock said, and John could hear that Sherlock was frowning in something close to confusion, as well. “Though wholly unnecessary. If you have insurance on your building, then any property damaged or lost, and any funds lost, shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I- I know,” Blessington stammered, and ran a hand through his sweat-damp, messy hair. “I jus- Ah.” He sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. “I’m goin’ away.”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m goin’ away. On holiday. To Italy. Or somethin'.”

John looked over to Sherlock, who was frowning heavily. 

“Do you think-” John spoke, much to Sherlock’s surprise, “-that leaving your business in the time that it needs you most is such a good idea?”

Blessington looked at him and was silent for a long moment. “I’ve… I’ve got to leave. Just for a week, until this blows over. I’ve got Matvei and Pavel to keep an eye on the place now, haven’t I? And they know about everythin’, ‘bout the robbin’s. That’s why they’re here, anyhow.”

“Have you already told them you’re leaving?” Sherlock asked.

“This mornin’, aye,” Blessington responded, and he nodded over to where a small duffel sat by the window. “Already packed. Ready to go. I’m leavin’ after closin’,” he said with a definitive nod.

John let out a breath. “Well, if… if you think that’s what’s best.”

“Trust me, mate, it is. For everyone,” he said, and Sherlock hummed softly next to where John stood.

“So you called me down here in the middle of my busy day, to tell me that you were leaving this evening.”

Blessington looked frightened. “I-I thought you’d want tae know!” he said, and breathed heavily, clearly panicked. “And ah dinnae ken who’s lookin’ at me texts! Can’t just  _ tell _ ye like tha’,” he said, his accent growing thicker as he grew more flustered. “Go’ many a clipe ‘round ‘ere, tell ye tha’.” 

In an effort to calm the man down, lest he completely lose track of what the bloody hell he was saying, John smiled softly. “Go ahead and take your holiday. That’s probably best for you. And you’ll be a safe distance away from all of this, if something does happen. You look like you need to relax a bit,” he said, to which Blessington looked at him, and then looked at Sherlock.

“He’s a doctor,” Sherlock explained, and almost sounded proud about it. “It’s best to do as he says.”

“Right,” Blessington said, and cleared his throat noisily again. “Well then. You lot can go, if ye want. I just… yeah. Thought I’d let ye know.”

“Much appreciated,” Sherlock said with a small nod, and then moved towards the door without another word. John followed.

Blessington watched them go, and as they passed through the door, John turned around, feeling awkward without giving the man a proper farewell. “Uh, enjoy the rest of your day, and have a safe trip. Do, um, let us know if you need anything else before you leave, and have a nice holiday.” He offered a kind smile, and Blessington actually smiled in return, however uneasy the smile looked.

With that, John took his leave, and hurried down the hallway to catch up with Sherlock, who was already pushing through the door into the main part of the café. 

“That was odd,” John murmured as they walked through the café, and he noticed as he glanced to the bar, that the Russian man- either Matvei or Pavel -was gone.

“He’s an odd man,” Sherlock explained simply. And then: “Do you have plans this evening?”

“What?” John looked up at Sherlock in surprise.

“Plans. Tonight. Are you free?”

“I- I don’t have anything planned, no. Why?” 

“Brilliant.” Sherlock pushed open the front door of the café, the little bell over the door tinkling merrily to announce their departure, and John hurried through to walk by Sherlock’s side as the pair made their way down the pavement. 

“We’re having a stakeout.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update coming next Saturday, for real this time.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading, and to everyone who has commented and left kudos thus far, thank you so much for letting me know you enjoy the story, and for the kind words and opinions. All of you motivate me to keep churning out chapters. As we continue, please, don't hesitate to let me know what you think; your feedback as readers is paramount!
> 
> Thanks again, and see you all back here on Saturday!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter today! Lots going on!  
> Quick CW for brief depictions and talks of suicide, and some more graphic depictions of a suicide/murder crime scene. Thanks so much for clicking your way here, and I hope you enjoy.

“We’re having a stakeout.”

The smile on Sherlock’s face was wolfish; he looked like the cat that caught the canary, self-satisfied, with a head swimming with wicked thoughts.

“Who’s this _we_?” John asked, sounding nearly affronted at the assumption that _he_ would wish to attend such an event. “I’m your therapist. Not your crime-solving partner.”

“I see no reason to believe that the two must be mutually exclusive,” Sherlock rejoined, his grin audible in his voice.

John let out a huff of air as he thought of a million reasons why the two occupations were most _definitely_ mutually exclusive. “I could name several; prime among them being the fact that you are my _client_ , and I really shouldn’t be encouraging potentially-dangerous behaviour.”

“John,” Sherlock sighed with an eye-roll John didn’t have to see to know it had happened, “do we have to have the talk about professionalism again? Just like with the texting; this is _overwhelmingly_ professional. Solving crimes is what I do.” He caught John’s eyes in a sidelong glance as they walked. “And, if you think about it, going by myself is far more dangerous than having a soldier with me.” He cracked a grin. “Not to mention the fact that I _could_ be spending my time tonight indulging in some recreational substance usage.”

John was quiet for a moment, pursing his lips as he deliberated. “Fair enough,” he murmured, and he felt the smugness radiating off of Sherlock beside him, pleased as punch that he’d gotten his way.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock chirped, a skip in his step as he led the way around a corner, and it was then that John realised he had no clue where he was being taken.

“Um. Should I go back to my flat and get ready?” he asked tentatively, unsure if Sherlock had any other unspoken _plans_ for the two of them today.

“Hm? Oh, yes, you probably should,” the detective responded, and stepped to the kerb, throwing one gloved hand in the air - which was interesting, as John hadn’t seen him put gloves on. “Bring your gun,” he added with an air of nonchalance as a taxi miraculously materialized seemingly out of thin air beside where Sherlock stood.

John wasn’t sure if he was more thrown by the offhand comment about his possession of a firearm (which was something he’d tried very hard to keep hidden, seeing as it was rather illegal), or by the way Sherlock had successfully hailed a cab with such ease during rush hour. He resorted to crediting the cab-hailing skills to some sort of black magic, and focused instead for the time being on the topic of his gun. “How do you know I have a gun?” he asked with trepidation.

“Relax, John,” Sherlock reassured as he opened the back door of the taxi. “I’m hardly going to report you… but you should take care when you clean it; the gun oil does stain your jeans.”

The wink he gave John following his advice was unexpected, but impossibly charming to the point where John’s cheeks tinged pink. “Oh. Okay,” he said dumbly, and then, a touch awkwardly, climbed into the back of the cab. The door remained open, and John ignored the annoyed huff of the cab driver in favour of looking up at where Sherlock stood on the pavement, one gloved hand on the top of the door. “I’ll meet you back here tonight, then?” he asked, breaking the silence after a moment.

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll text you an address, actually. And a time. Keep your mobile close by, and be sure to charge it before you leave.” The young detective stood somewhat awkwardly for a beat, before he averted his gaze. “Right. Then I suppose I’ll see you tonight.”

John smiled, strangely enamoured. “See you,” he said back, voice perhaps a touch too soft for a casual farewell, and he tucked himself the rest of the way into the cab as Sherlock gave a light-tipped smile and shut the door. The doctor watched as the folds of Sherlock’s long, sweeping coat caught a sudden gust of mild wind as he turned away, sending the dark fabric fluttering out behind him in the breeze like a dark cape.

“Oi, where to?” the cab driver barked in irritation, snapping John out of his reverie, and his cheeks burned involuntarily as he realised he’d been staring rather stupidly out of the window, gazing after a man who was no longer there. He distractedly gave his address to the cabbie and looked back to the window, watching the scenes of the streets of London blur as the cab sped off away from the kerb and towards his home.

\---

In the hours that followed, John changed clothes yet again, bustled around his flat in an attempt to keep busy, and ate a meager meal; enough to tide him over until the following day, but not enough to induce post-meal lethargy. The closest thing to personal experience with stakeouts that he had was from befriending a sniper during his time in the army who detailed for him the length of his stationing in any one place. Other than that, in addition to what he’d gathered from the occasional crime show, John didn’t know quite what to expect, come the evening; would they be waiting in a car, or in an alley across the street? Would there be any chance for some action, or would John’s gun remain unfired? How long would they wait outside the establishment before they gave up and went home? Hopefully the weather would at least be cooperative - which was a tall order for London at this time of year.

His phone chimed a little after eight in the evening with a text from Sherlock, providing an address John knew to be a couple short blocks away from the café, and a time: 22:30. That, John supposed, would give whoever was closing for the night plenty of time to finish their duties and go home, and give Mr. Blessington ample time to take his leave as he said he would.

By half nine, John was so overwhelmed by his own restlessness that, on the way back from his sixth trip to the bathroom where he self-consciously went about primping himself in the mirror, he decided it was best to vacate his flat altogether, lest his hair start falling out due to the sheer number of times he was running his fingers anxiously through it.

Keys, mobile, and wallet tucked in their respective pockets of John’s dark, well-fitted jeans and black Haversack jacket, John made ready to take his leave; but on the way out of the door, one foot over the threshold, he caught himself. As he turned his head, his eyes fixed on the single drawer in his bedside table, something in his stomach churning as he thought of what lie inside.

Except, this time, when he looked at it and thought of smooth metal in his hand, cool to the touch, the phantom sensation of the same cool metal against his palate, or against his temple, or under his chin, vibrating with the trembling of his hand, was notably absent. He found himself walking across the hardwood floor of his flat before he fully realised it, the door falling closed behind him with a soft ‘click’ as he strode evenly to stand next to his bed. One hand reached out to slowly pull open the small drawer of the nightstand, before reaching into the shadowed compartment, and his fingers wrapped firmly around a familiar grip.

On one of his bad nights, the feeling of the gun in his hand, weighty with the implications of just why he held it, would have sent him collapsing back onto his bed, wracked with tremours and, sometimes, tears.

Now, though, as he stood erect and sturdy, the familiar and somehow comforting weight of the cold metal in his practised grip gave him a sense of security; and something in his chest roared to life at the promise of _adventure._ _Excitement. Danger._

A quick check of the chamber assured John that the gun was fully-loaded, and as he closed the nightstand drawer and reached back to tuck the handgun into the back of his waistband and under his oatmeal jumper where it nestled comfortably and safely against the small of his back before finally heading out the door, the feelings of helplessness and brooding thoughts of a loud bang followed by nothingness, were replaced by adrenaline, and fantastical visions of tailing a fantastical man in a dark coat through the dimly-lit London streets.

\---

He’d managed to waste twenty minutes wandering about the main road near his flat, attempting to look natural in the slight lull of late-evening foot-traffic, before he hailed a cab. He was due to arrive at Sherlock’s set location in about twenty minutes, and it was a fifteen minute drive in good traffic, so John requested to be dropped in front of a Sainsbury’s a block away from where they were to meet. He paid the cabbie a few pounds extra in hopes that maybe the tip would divert attention from how peculiar John thought it might seem to be dropped off in front of a closed shop at this hour. Whether or not the tip had anything to do with it, the driver didn’t seem to care in the least as he pulled away from the kerb the moment John closed the back door.

Hands tucked in his pockets, the doctor started off down the walkway.

The evening in this part of London didn’t bring with it the bustling night-life that many might associate with the city; it wasn’t Soho, after all. But there were still people out and about; a young couple on their way back from dinner or a concert, the young woman hanging off the man’s arm and laughing softly at something he had said; a woman with earbuds in, her nose buried in her mobile, the sharp ‘clack’ of her heels against the pavement loudly announcing her approach and retreat; two men walking hand in hand and speaking in casually hushed tones; a middle-aged man and woman walking and smiling, a small child sat atop the man’s shoulders. Cars and cabs went by on the street to John’s left, and of the buildings on his right, few appeared open, but some had lights on and people inside, sitting down for a nice dinner at an elaborate eatery, or grabbing a coffee at a cafe that catered to students’ tendencies to be out and about at late hours.

The street was illuminated by the streetlights lining the pavement, and for a moment, John was lost in the simple beauty of it all. When he was young, he’d dreamed of coming to the city; and then, when his sister had moved out of their childhood home (more out of necessity than by choice), she’d gotten the chance to live near the action, in a small flat with her then-girlfriend in Greenwich. Though he could hardly remember it (he’d only visited once), he recalled the experience being quite nice, even though he hadn’t escaped the fighting, as Tanya and Harry argued almost-constantly. But the scenery was prime.

When John had been discharged, the pension he was given was nowhere near enough to survive in London; but he knew that London was where he wanted to be. At first, the charming, orchestrated chaos of the city was what beckoned him. His soldier’s brain thought that a quiet home in the country would very well do him in. Even back in Aldershot, he’d be as good as dead. It wasn’t the glamour of the city, but the bustle, the constant motion that would give him the sense of _purpose_ that he craved.

The problem being, however, that he hadn’t really been able to find his _place_ in the bustle.

Sure, offering up his medical expertise and personal experience in the hopes that he could change a few lives and help a few lost souls wasn’t terribly exciting, but it was _something_ to do. It wasn’t staunching blood-flow from a shrapnel wound on a sandy battlefield, but it was something to keep him busy and potentially do some good in the process.

But maybe his burning need to find a real _purpose_ was the reason for his heart leaping into his throat when he spotted a silhouette leaning against a building a short distance down the pavement that shouldn’t have been as familiar as it was.

“Sherlock,” he called, his smile audible in his voice, and it occurred to him that anyone nearby would assume he was greeting a good friend, either because of a chance run-in or because they’d planned to meet to grab coffee; not to go stake out a cafe a few blocks away in the event of a break-in. The thought only made his smile broaden.

“John,” the young man greeted, looking absolutely haunting where he stood, cloaked in black, against the off-white brick wall of a closed sweets shop. “Do you always arrive to meetings early?” he quipped with a small smile, a burning cigarette held aloft in one pale hand.

The doctor peered at his watch to find that, despite his best efforts, he’d still managed to arrive just over five minutes early. He nearly grew defensive, before coming to a realisation and looking up with a teasing grin. “You’re one to talk, you’ve arrived sooner than I have,” he rejoined, to which Sherlock nodded in assent.

“Fair point,” he said, and pushed off of the wall, dropping his cigarette to crush it with the heel of one posh Yves Saint Laurent before starting off down the pavement wordlessly, clearly expecting John to follow.

Which, of course, the doctor did.

“So,” John began as he drew up to walk by Sherlock’s side. “We’re just going to… hide out across the street from this place, then?”

“Something like that,” Sherlock said as they rounded a corner onto a less-populated side-street. “You’ve your gun on you, yes?”

John’s eyes widened slightly and he glanced around, as if someone was near them who would hear. “Yes,” he replied, though softer in his tone. “Fully-loaded.”

“Good shot?”

The question almost took John by surprise, but he grinned and glanced up at the detective. “Well, maybe you’ll get lucky and you’ll get a chance to find out tonight,” he teased, the statement sounding unusually and unfairly flirtatious.

Sherlock, in response, just grinned and hummed lowly, and John, unsure of how to continue, fell silent.

The silence was comfortable until the sound of a distant siren behind them broke through the relative silence of the night.

John, for one, was nearly oblivious, having grown quite accustomed to the sounds of the city; including police, ambulance, and firetruck sirens. It was normal.

Sherlock, on the other hand, stopped, and turned around to watch the cruiser turn the corner they’d just come round, and his voice was soft when he spoke.

“Oh, no.”

John frowned, having stopped walking when Sherlock had, and looked between the cop car and the detective, and he watched Sherlock’s face fall as the taller man watched the car go by.

“ _Shit,_ ” he exclaimed suddenly, and broke into a run, going the same direction the cruiser had.

“Wait-what? Sherlock!” John broke into a run after the man, dashing across the street when Sherlock did, though _John_ had enough bloody sense to _look both ways_ \- fucking _nutter_ \- and darted around the next corner as Sherlock had; and nearly ran into the detective’s back.

He stopped, slightly out-of-breath, and gaped at the sight that greeted them both:

Yellow crime-scene tape was stretched across the length of the road, with police cruisers with lights on parked on either side of it. There was another length of yellow tape stretched across the road a ways further down, blocking off the area, which John noticed was, of course, surrounding the café he and Sherlock had visited earlier in the day.

“Well, fuck,” John said, thoroughly put-out. “Looks like we missed it.” His spirit deflated as he watched people in uniforms bustling about down the street behind the tape. The tall buildings surrounding the area combined with the dead of the night meant that John could almost hear clearly the orders being barked by whoever was in charge, and he could feel his mood starting to sour. He knew he’d been excited for this, but he hadn’t been aware of just how _much_ he’d been looking forward to spending a night in a dingy alley, looking out for petty thieves with a man who was quite possibly mad.

One look up at Sherlock, however, had hope springing anew in his chest, as the look on Sherlock’s face wasn’t one of resignation, but of curious confusion.

“No. There wasn’t a robbery,” Sherlock said, and suddenly strode forward, leaving John to take a few quick steps to catch up to him.

“What?” John asked, looking with wide eyes between Sherlock and the crime scene, now observing the bustle behind the red tape like a small child would, with no small amount of fascination and intrigue.

“Not a robbery,” Sherlock repeated, “but a murder.” He ignored the stricken look John gave him. “Mr. Blessington has been killed.”

Before John had the chance to question - and he had _so many questions_ \- Sherlock approached the yellow tape, only to be stopped by a young woman, about his age or younger, with dark skin and darker hair in a uniform who had been standing by a cop car on the other side of the tape.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she said in a rushed, chastising voice, and as she came closer John recognised her from the same interview he’d seen Lestrade in on the telly. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a way that led John to believe she and the tall man who was about to duck under the crime scene tape were well-acquainted, and not in a friendly way.

“I’m here to see Lestrade,” Sherlock said cooly, and John had to school his features, because he knew that was a lie.

“Why?” the girl asked.

“I was invited,” Sherlock replied.

“ _Why?”_ the girl asked again, this time not bothering to hide the malice in her tone.

“I _think_ he wants me to have a look,” Sherlock rejoined, feigning surprise with no small amount of sarcasm that had the corner of John’s lips quirking upward without permission.

“Well you know what _I_ think, don’t you?” the young woman replied sassily. And, John decided, it wasn’t a very _cute_ sass, either. He also decided that he probably didn’t like her much.

“Of course, Sally,” Sherlock said, and ignored the girl completely as he dipped under the tape before lifting it up for John to dip under.

“Ah, ah, and who’s this?” the woman - Sally - asked, looking John up and down before looking back at Sherlock. “Your boyfriend?” she asked, clearly teasing, and John looked in time to see Sherlock set his jaw.

“Colleague of mine,” he said firmly.

“ _Colleague_?” she asked scathingly. “How do _you_ get a bloody _colleague_?” She didn’t wait for a response, though, and instead looked at John with a wide-eyed look that said _blink twice if you’re being held hostage_. “Did _he_ follow you home?” An accusatory finger pointed in Sherlock’s direction. “If you need help, just tell us; we’ll jump at the chance to put him down-”

“Alright, you-”

“-John, come.”

John continued staring Sally down, his brows furrowed in anger and annoyance, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He’d opened his mouth, ready to verbally rip into this girl, but Sherlock had interrupted him, beckoning him to duck under the tape he was holding up for him. “Come on,” Sherlock repeated in a tone that said, _just leave it; she’s not worth it._

With one last look between the two, John set his jaw and ducked under the yellow tape, and stood steadfastly by Sherlock’s side as Sally stared them both down. Finally, she rolled her eyes and rose her walkie talkie to her mouth, at which point John nearly panicked when he realised she was about to announce Sherlock’s arrival, likely to Lestrade, when Lestrade hadn’t invited him. And he _certainly_ wasn’t expecting John.

Sherlock seemed to come to the same conclusion, as he suddenly tilted his head and said in a voice that was disturbingly casual; “you didn’t make it home last night.”

The statement shocked both Sally and John, but the look of confusion on John’s face contrasted greatly with the look of sudden fear which was quickly overwhelmed by searing hatred that appeared on Sally’s.

With a small hum, Sherlock walked off, brushing past a clearly-pissed-off Sally, and John dutifully followed.

“Oi! Freak! Keep your bloody nose in your own business!” she shouted after them, and when John made to turn around to shout some choice words back at her, Sherlock nudged his arm with a soft, “don’t bother,” and John complied, if only to keep from causing a scene.

The distraction, however strange it had been, seemed to have worked, because John didn’t hear her radio anyone about their arrival, and the two of them made it to the front door of the café without incident. Which was where a man dressed in a blue, plastic smock stopped them as he was exiting the establishment.

“Ah, Anderson,” Sherlock greeted, the pleasantry holding plenty of mockery, “here we are again.”

“This is a _crime scene_ ,” the man in blue said sharply, his weaselly face contorting into a distasteful expression as one white-gloved finger pointed at Sherlock threateningly. “I don’t want it contaminated. Got it?”

Sherlock, clearly unaffected, just rocked casually back onto his heels as he looked around with an air of nonchalance that John would never pin to someone at a crime scene. “Naturally,” the low baritone rumbled out, and as Anderson was making to walk away, Sherlock spoke again. “Your girlfriend was supposed to come back from her semester abroad a few days ago… was her flight delayed?”

Once again, John’s face contorted in confusion as he looked at the detective, and he was further confused when he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Sally was walking briskly towards them from her place at the police cruiser by the tape. His confused expression was mirrored on Anderson’s face; though after a moment, the other man relaxed.

“Oh, don’t even _pretend_ you worked that one out; somebody told you,” he spat, clearly unimpressed.

Sherlock’s voice came out in a low murmur. “Your deodorant told me.”

This was just getting more and more absurd, John thought, feeling exasperated.

“My deodorant?” Anderson asked, sounding as lost as John felt.

“It’s for _men,_ ” Sherlock said, teasing.

“Of course it’s for _men_!” Anderson seemed affronted. “ _I’m_ wearing it!”

“So’s Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock said, and nodded his head towards where Sally had come up near them, and John’s eyes widened as he realised.

Anderson’s and Sally’s faces were both comically stricken, Sally’s gone a bit pale, though she still had it in her to look defiant, and Anderson’s face rather mortified before he schooled his expression. “Now, listen,” he said hurriedly, waggling his finger at Sherlock, “whatever you’re trying to _imply-_ ”

“I’m not implying anything!” Sherlock said with mock-innocence, stepping aside and sauntering slowly towards the door, “I’m sure Sally dropped by for a late-night study session and just _happened_ to stay over. Happens all the time,” he said, and turned back towards the pair, looking between them and then up and down Sergeant Donovan. “And I assume she _scrubbed your floors,_ going by the state of her knees.” He fell silent after that, letting the implications sink in, and he quirked a small grin before turning around and moving inside, leaving Sally, Anderson, and John standing in shocked silence.

John blinked as his body caught up to his brain, and he made after Sherlock; but not before looking at Sally and giving her a once-over, her skirt baring her lightly-bruised knees to the world, and the devious, knowing grin that fought its way onto his face couldn’t be schooled, so he turned to quickly follow Sherlock inside before it overwhelmed him.

When he got inside and caught up to Sherlock, he was giggling, and he looked up to find Sherlock smiling, far too pleased with himself. The taller man broke into a softer, more subdued fit of chuckles as he looked around the main part of the café and then led John off to the side, near the bar, where a group of people in blue smocks like Anderson had been wearing were congregated.

“Stop. Stop it, we can’t _giggle,_ it’s a crime scene,” John tried between his own bouts of quiet laughter, chastising both himself and Sherlock for their immaturity - however well-merited. “ _Stop it.”_

“You’re the one who started it. Don’t blame me,” Sherlock murmured, smile in his voice.

John cleared his throat loudly and schooled his expression as they approached the group of men and women, some donning blue suits, some talking, some taking or reading notes in notepads. One man in particular looked up as they approached, and John recognised his face before he recognised his voice.

“Sherlock? The hell are you doing here?” Lestrade demanded with a heavy frown. “I didn’t call you.”

“You didn’t,” Sherlock confirmed, “but it would appear your case and my case have crossed paths. I was employed privately by Mr. Blessington,” he explained before Lestrade had the chance to question him.

“Well,” the DI said with raised eyebrows and a heavy sigh, “looks like he won’t be needing your help anymore; he’s dead.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “But, seeing as I am now _not_ going to be receiving my monetary compensation from him, I think he owes it to me posthumously to at least keep me occupied by letting me find his killer.”

Lestrade pursed his lips and shook his head with a soft hum. “Ah, no. No killer.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Suicide, Sherlock. He’s hanged himself.”

John, just as surprised as Sherlock, looked between the two men. Sherlock, clearly, wasn’t buying it.

“Show me the body,” he said after a long moment.

“Sherlock, it’s definitely suici-”

“Show me,” Sherlock demanded, and Lestrade huffed.

“Jesus Christ- fine. Fine. I’ll-” the DI stopped speaking abruptly as he became aware of John’s presence. After a moment where he appeared to be placing where exactly he knew John from, he perked up. “Dr. Watson!”

John offered a small smile. “Hullo.”

“You’re- why is he here?” he asked Sherlock.

“He’s with me.”

“But-”

“I _said,_ he’s with me,” Sherlock repeated with an air of finality, and Lestrade, likely despite his better judgement, decided not to question it. John could only imagine how confusing it must be for the man, dealing with a freelance detective and his therapist turning up unannounced at a murder scene.

“Fine,” Lestrade relinquished, and tossed John a blue smock, which the doctor reflexively caught and started pulling on. Though he did a double-take at Sherlock, who only grabbed a pair of gloves.

“Aren’t you going to put one on?” John punctuated the inquiry with the sharp zip of the front of his full-body suit.

His question was met with a withering glare, and John suddenly felt quite silly; but he hadn’t much time to ruminate on it, as Lestrade suddenly brushed past them and headed towards the door which John knew led to the back of the building, and to Blessington’s office.

“We’re back here.”

Diligently, the detective-doctor duo followed the Detective Inspector through the propped-open door and down the hallway. “He’s back here in his office,” Greg explained as they walked. “Night cleaning crew found him.”

Strangely enough, it didn’t occur to John until he was walking through the door to the office behind Lestrade and Sherlock, that there was a dead body on the other side.

It didn’t occur to him that the man he’d spoken to earlier that same day, who’d seemed terrified for his life and hard-set on taking a holiday, was dead in the room they were walking into.

When one imagines walking into a room where someone died, whether it be by suicide, homicide or tragic accident (were one to imagine those sorts of things in their free time for whatever reason), one would probably expect a scene straight out of a horror film: a dramatic, blood-spattered room backlit by the occasional lightning strike seen through the floor-to-ceiling, sheer-curtain-covered windows. A body, lying in the centre of the room, on display, covered in blood.

While John was well aware of the fact that Hollywood panache was further from reality than he could ever imagine, there was a certain amount of drama that came with stuffing wound-packing-pellets into a young lad’s stomach as he bled out on the cot in an infirmary in the middle of a blistering desert, screaming incoherently the names of loved ones back home; or the pristine stillness and silence, accompanied by the din of small, medical instruments against metal slabs in cadaver labs.

But this scene was unlike anything John could have imagined.

It was the exact same room as earlier, and there was no stereotypical, blood-curdling scream in the background. The only differences in the room this time were that there were a few ultra-bright florescent lights on stands in the corners of the room, there was a piece of rope that was tied to the bare rafters of the ceiling that was frayed at the end, and there were a small number of people draped in blue milling about, talking in hushed tones, jotting down notes, going about their own business. It was quiet, but not excruciatingly so; for all intents and purposes, it was a rather calm atmosphere.

And to top it all off, off to one side of the room, underneath the bit of frayed rope that was tied to the rafter, lying there being more or less ignored as if it were but a minor inconvenience to step around, was the body of Mr. Blessington, with the rest of the rope tied around his neck.

While John stood still, silently taking in the scene and making sure his bearings were intact, Sherlock stepped forward, and the first thing he did was sniff audibly; as if he were smelling something. John’s focus shifted from the dead body to Sherlock, while Greg, off to the side, silently ushered the few people that were in the room back out into the hallway. The blue minions all filed out in single-file, leaving Greg, John, and Sherlock behind.

John and Greg stood by the door, Greg seeming to resignedly accept the fact that Sherlock was poking about the room wearing his street clothes and a pair of gloves, while John watched Sherlock with rapt attention and fascination as he fluttered about the room:

Behind the desk. Peeking under the desk. Looking through things _on_ the desk. Poking around the ash tray with a gloved finger and a small magnifying glass. Fiddling with the locks on all three of the windows. When the man did a double-take to look back at something on the floor in front of the first window, John followed his eyes, and then frowned, looking back at Sherlock, because there was nothing there-- wait.

There was nothing there.

A vivid recollection of the room earlier that day supplied the missing piece of the puzzle: the duffel bag. The duffel bag that Mr. Blessington had motioned to, that he’d packed, that he’d intended to take with him on holiday. It wasn’t there.

Sherlock’s face, when John looked back, was twisted into a suspicious look, but soon enough he was on the move again, skimming over dusty windowsills and flattening himself on the floor to bury his face in the threadbare carpet and crawling on all fours to examine every centimetre of the wooden chair that was tipped sideways next to the body, every action completed with a dramatic flair that John would reserve for superheroes or divas.

Come to think of it, he’d pin Sherlock as a bit of a diva.

 _Definitely a diva,_ John thought silently as he watched Sherlock finally approach the body, and flip the back of his coat out behind him dramatically before crouching down and hunching over the corpse.

John didn’t have to look to have a good idea of what he’d find, should he get closer; any number of possibilities, protruding eyes, pale face, or perhaps red and swollen, cold skin, blue lips… a part of him was curious, wondering what sort of damage had been done. But Sherlock was at work, and John didn’t want to disturb him.

After another minute of watching Sherlock prod at the body (though he was looking at rather odd things; the bottoms of his shoes, up his trouser leg, under his collar, at his belt, at the length of rope at the ceiling and the length around his neck, up his shirt sleeve), Lestrade heaved a sigh and shifted impatiently on his feet.

“Have you got anything?” the DI asked, and, bless him, he only sounded mildly irritated.

Sherlock sat back on his haunches, closing his small, collapsible magnifying glass with a sharp snap, looking too smug for his own good. “Not much.”

“Well?” Lestrade asked, but Sherlock pointedly ignored him.

“Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

John looked at Sherlock, then at Lestrade, then back at Sherlock, and then to the empty space at his side, as if expecting another Watson with a PhD to materialise. “Me?” he asked after a moment, pointing at his own chest.

“You’re a medical man, what’s your diagnosis?” Sherlock asked, his gaze steady, and while his expression remained stoic, John could almost assuredly see the smug smile in his eyes.

Wordlessly, John turned to Lestrade, a silent question in his expression.

“Oh, by all means, do as he says, help yourself,” Greg said with resignation. “Hurry up, the both of you. _Two_ minutes,” he urged as he turned, shook his head, and made his way out the door, at the same time as John hesitantly approached Sherlock and crouched across from him, on the other side of the body.

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

“What am I doing here?” John asked in return.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Helping me with my case. And helping make a point as a side-note.”

“Pretty sure I’m supposed to be helping you kick your cocaine habit. Though there was something about a stakeout that I had agreed to, there was nothing to do with hangings.”

“Yeah, but this is more fun.” The look in Sherlock’s eyes as he spoke was almost manic. It probably should have been concerning.

It wasn’t. If anything, it was enchanting.

“Fun?” John asked with a raised eyebrow, and his eyes darted down to the rather repulsive-looking corpse on the ground in between them, the only witness to this ridiculous conversation. “Ah, there’s a man. Lying dead. Right here,” he clarified with a point of a finger, in case Sherlock had forgotten.

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.” Sherlock said in almost a purr, eyes glimmering with mischief, and John narrowed his eyes at the other as he recognised the very same line from when he and Sherlock had been texting about the young woman who’d been strangled to death.

Even though it was a reused line, hearing Sherlock say it in person, with every inflection of his low-pitched voice there to be heard, made John’s stomach do flips. And then he realised, belatedly, that he shouldn’t be blushing and worrying about potential flirting whilst leaning over a dead body.

He huffed, and looked down, if only to distract himself from Sherlock’s eyes on him. Coming face-to-swollen-face with a cold, lifeless corpse was sobering enough.

John went into action, some part of him wanting to impress the brilliant man across from him; his gloved hands went to Blessington’s thick neck, tugging lightly on the rope and pushing aside the flesh to glimpse at the superficial abrasions underneath, caused by the rope. The rope was thick, and therefore hadn’t really cut into the skin. One bulging eye was open, pupil dilated, staring blankly at the ceiling where the rest of the rope was hung. His face was pale with a blueish tint that was most prominent in his lips, with a dried trail of saliva trailing out of one side of his mouth down towards his chin and neck. John reached out to part the man’s lips to peek into his mouth, and pursed his own lips with a small nod as he hummed to himself, then, analysis pretty much through, he looked up at Sherlock just as Lestrade was coming back into the room.

“Uh... “ The doctor cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a bit put-on-the-spot, as he looked between Lestrade and Sherlock; the former of whom looked a bit tired while the latter looked enraptured. John just barely fought back a blush. “So. Not like someone killed him and then strung him up - clearly ante-mortem hanging; cyanosis - blue face and lips, blue and swollen tongue with teeth indents in the tip to show it was pressed against his teeth… um. The- the rope is fixed here-” he pointed, “not high enough to exert pressure mainly on the bottom of the chin, neither was the point of suspension low enough to induce slow asphyxiation… I mean, the jugular veins weren’t obstructed while the arteries remained untouched or anything. Um… the knot,” he touched delicately at the knot fixed at the side of Blessington’s neck, “must have pressed against some part of the cervical sympathetic. That’s why his eye’s open.” He chewed his lip, searching for anything else to say. “Ah, likely vagal inhibition, since he’s not all swollen - but it could have been something else, and the congestion could have drained through the vertebral venous plexus, if it wasn’t damaged. Which, considering his size, is likely… but I’d need more than five minutes with the body to tell you.”

He looked up at Lestrade, who’d pursed his lips and nodded. “I’m not going to pretend to know half of what you said,” he said, and John huffed a soft laugh that died in his throat when he looked at Sherlock to find the man grinning at him in the most dazzling way that nearly made John’s heart skip in his chest.

The moment passed, though, when Lestrade interrupted. “Anything you’ve got, boys.”

Sherlock took a breath, snapped off his gloves, and stood up. “Victim is clearly in his late forties, asthmatic, diabetic, morbidly obese. Former member of the gang that has been keeping you lot at the Yard busy for the last month. Scared for his life, he hired help to keep himself safe from vengeful gang members under the guise of keeping his shop protected. He packed a bag, intending to travel for a few weeks-” he looked towards the window where the bag had been sat earlier that day “-and was in the process of leaving… He was leaving tonight. But he ended up getting himself killed in the process by the very two Russian men he’d hired for his own safety,” he said, trailing off a bit near the end as he continued looking around the room.

“Brilliant,” John blurted, and Sherlock shot him a look that John couldn’t read. “Sorry,” he apologised.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lestrade interjected, “if you’re just making this up-”

“Rash on his upper arms,” Sherlock said, pointing back to the body, and John did him a favour of lifting up the arm of the tee shirt to expose an angry red rash going up to the man’s shoulders. “Exertion-induced asthma, not to mention the inhaler in his desk drawer.” He strode over to dig in the rubbish bin by the desk, and he pulled out a syringe. “Diabetic; disposable syringes that he snaps the needles off of - a drug-addict using _disposable_ syringes wouldn’t be so careful,” he said, and John’s stomach tightened at the fact that he knew this was a bit of personal knowledge. “No track marks on his arm; likely injection site is on his leg.

“Tattoo on his left ankle-” he barreled on quickly and dug out his mobile, tapping away and pulling up a photograph of a small design which he showed to both Greg and John “-a mark used like a brand to initiate and identify current and former members of the Worthington Bank Gang. This particular gang had a falling out back in the early nineties, something Blessington was likely involved in. He’s no longer affiliated, so of course he’d get a bit unsettled at the knowledge of gang activity in his neighbourhood. Hired help; John, you remember the Russians,” he said, and John nodded, remembering their run-in with one of them earlier that day. “They were here _after_ Blessington died.”

The detective made his way over to the desk, and pointed at the ash tray. “Belomorkanal.”

“Gesundheit,” Greg quipped, and John had to bite his lip to stifle a grin at the remark combined with the eye-roll Sherlock gave that threatened to make his irises disappear.

“ _Belomorkanal_ ,” the young man started again, “is a Russian cigarette. It’s a specific design called papirosa; it just has a circle tube of thin cardboard at the end instead of a filter, which is usually crushed flat so loose tobacco doesn’t spill through. And those fag ends, are right here, in the ash tray.”

“Maybe he just likes exotic cigarettes,” Lestrade supplied with a shrug.

“Greg, he smokes _menthols_ ,” Sherlock said. “Belomorkanal are strong- too strong. Strongest in Western Europe, if not the world. Blessington couldn’t have handled these. If he smoked these on a regular basis, the room would smell even more like cigarettes.”

“Fantastic!” John exclaimed on a breath, and Sherlock turned towards him, almost looming over him, just a bit too close.

“Do you know you do that aloud?” he asked in a murmur.

“Sorry,” John apologised again, averting his eyes. “I’ll shut up.”

“No-” Sherlock paused a moment. “It’s… fine.”

John started, and then grinned, but didn’t get the chance to speak further.

“Yeah, okay,” Greg said, “but what’s this about that bag?”

“The bag, yes; he had a bag, a good-sized duffel, earlier today. It was under that window. John remembers.” John nodded. “Where is it? What have you done with it?” Sherlock asked as he went to look at the body again.

“There wasn’t any bag.”

Sherlock froze and turned where he was crouched. “What?”

“There wasn’t a bag, Sherlock,” Lestrade repeated. “There was never any bag when we got in here.”

Suddenly, Sherlock sprung up and moved to push Lestrade aside. “Large black duffle bag! Did anyone see it?! Did any of you imbeciles move it?!” he called out as he pushed his way down the hallway, Greg and John hurrying after him.

“No one saw a bag, Sherlock,” Lestrade tried reassuring him, but Sherlock was hearing none of it.

In an instant, Sherlock froze, clearly thinking, and then he gasped, clapping his hands together in front of his face with an excited, “Oh!” before he ran outside.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Greg said, and ran after him. “Sherlock! What in the hell-”

“The car! It’s in the car!” Sherlock called from where he was already rounding the building.

John, huffing, grin plastered to his face, followed.

By the time he caught up to both Sherlock and Greg, the detective was standing at the boot of a car parked in the small lot beside the building while Lestrade was instructing another officer to jemmy the lock on the driver’s side so they could open the boot.

“You’re bloody brilliant. Have I told you that?” John asked with a slight chuckle as he came up to stand next to Sherlock.

“So you’ve mentioned,” Sherlock murmured, but he didn’t look terribly pleased. “Not clever enough to have saved an innocent man from being killed by the very men he hired for protection. After he hired _me_ for protection.”

John furrowed his brow and stepped closer, nudging Sherlock’s arm with his own. “Hey, you couldn’t have seen that coming. For all your genius, not even you could have seen that. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” The huff he received in response didn’t sound chipper. “Sherlock. Hey.” He waited until the detective looked at him, and then he gave a soft smile. “Why don’t you tell me how you know the bag is in the boot, hm?”

At the prodding, Sherlock took a moment to look between both of John’s eyes for any sign of deceit, before launching into his reasoning.

“Well… obviously, the bag wasn’t in the room. It wasn’t in the main room when we came in, so where else would it be? That car,” he motioned towards the vehicle in question, “was here earlier today. Plates from Scotland; St. Andrew’s Cross as a decorative touch on the side, and the model fits that of the set of keys on Blessington’s desk. So, his car. It’s the only car still here. And it doesn't belong to the night cleaning staff, because they wouldn’t have been here during the day. It could have been another member of staff, I suppose, but the Scotland plates were the largest indicator.”

“And how does the bag being in the car prove it’s suicide?” John inquired.

“Because, John. Think about it; who would take the time to go put their bag in the boot of their car, and then come inside and hang themselves? Not only that, but it would have had to have been premeditated, because _nowhere_ in that café are they going to have use for a rope that thick. There is absolutely _no_ reason for that rope to have been there - it’s also a new rope, you can tell by the quality. So he would have had to have gone out and bought it specifically for this, because his belt certainly wasn’t going to support his weight. So, who plans a holiday, packs their luggage, takes it to their car, and then goes and buys a rope thick enough for the job, and then hangs himself in his office?”

John pursed his lips.

At the same time, the boot of the trunk popped open, the little light on the interior of the space lighting up the area to reveal a duffle bag, and Sherlock approached it to unzip it. The rest of them - John, Greg, and the extra police officer - all gathered around to watch as Sherlock pulled out wadded up clothes, a fair amount of cash, a small cooler unit with insulin and syringes, a mobile phone, and, at the bottom of the suitcase, a gun, which he took out carefully and checked the safety on, before handing it over to the police officer. “He was leaving, Greg,” he said, staring Lestrade down. “On the run. He was leaving for his own protection against the very people who killed him.”

Lestrade just sighed and scratched the back of his head. “I… Sherlock. I believe you. You know I do,” he said. “But the man was clinically depressed - his records show it. And until you can give me firm evidence besides a couple fag ends that may very well have been put there in a bloody _business meeting_ Blessington had with those Russian blokes earlier in the day, then I have to consider the rest of this evidence as circumstantial.”

Sherlock visibly deflated, and John looked at Lestrade as though the man had punted a fucking puppy.

“You’re probably right, he was probably leaving," the DI continued, "but maybe he had a change of heart at the last minute. I’m no expert, but depression is unpredictable.”

John glanced at the side of Sherlock’s face and knew this to be true.

Sherlock heaved a sigh and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Alright. I’ll get you suspects, then. I’ll get you concrete evidence,” he said, voice tight with frustration.

“And as soon as you do, I’ll do what you say,” Lestrade said. “Until then, you’re welcome to _assist_ us on this case, but do not go out on your own. Are we clear?”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, and, conveniently enough, his mobile chimed in his pocket. Frowning, he pulled it out, and John had previously thought it wasn’t possible for the man to look any more inconvenienced. He held the phone up to his ear. “What?” he barked, and silently excused himself from the group, continuing to talk on his phone as he meandered back into the fray of police vehicles and police tape that surrounded the building.

John watched him go with a sigh, and then turned back to Lestrade, who was dismissing the other police officer. Once the other had left, leaving the two barely-acquainted men alone by the car, Lestrade crossed his arms and looked at John.

“So. You’re still seeing each other?” he asked, clearly without thinking, and his eyes widened fractionally. “I mean in therapy. Is he still your patient. That’s what I meant,” he amended.

John let it go. “Yeah. He’s been coming almost every week,” he said, before really thinking about how much he should be telling the other man. Not only was it against the rules, but it was also slightly immoral, to divulge this sort of information.

“And how’s it going?”

“Fine,” John said. Which he thought was perfectly fine to say.

Greg nodded, and looked back at the car, silent for a moment. “He’s better.”

“Sorry?” John asked.

“He’s better for it. The therapy. I mean, I think. He’s seemed… better. From what I’ve seen. Not like I see him all that often, but… you know. I think whatever you’re doing is working,” he offered with a small, tight smile.

John smiled back, thankful for the assurance, though he wasn’t really sure what all he was doing; he clearly hadn’t succeeded thus far in keeping Sherlock away from drugs, but Greg didn’t need to know that. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Yeah,” Greg continued. “I just hope he-- where’d he go?” he asked, looking behind John with a frown.

When John turned around and caught no sight of Sherlock, he sighed heavily; he hadn’t really expected for them to _hang out_ after this, but he hadn’t anticipated being left completely _alone_ at a crime scene he surely wasn’t entirely _welcome_ at in the first place. “Fuck,” John sighed, and Lestrade gave a dry chuckle, patting the doctor on the shoulder - thankfully the good one.

“He’ll do that,” he said with a smile as he walked past John, headed back towards the building. “You learn to get used to it. He’s a character, he is.”

“Sure,” John murmured, horribly put-out, and started walking away from the alley, before he realised he was still wearing his blue suit. “Um, what do I do with this?” he asked, and Lestrade looked back at him.

“Oh, just pitch it,” he said, nodding to the dumpster in the lot by the car. “It’s contaminated. No worries, just get rid of it.”

“Alright. Nice seeing you,” John said out of reflex as he began disrobing.

“You too. Have a good night, Doctor,” Greg said with a small wave, before he disappeared around the front of the building.

Sighing, John peeled the blue, plastic monstrosity off of himself and tossed it into the giant bin along the brick wall. Then, at a loss for what to do with himself, he ambled out of the lot and off towards the way he and Sherlock had come in, staying close to the buildings and steadfastly avoiding Sally Donovan and that Anderson character, who were talking to each other and looking at him indiscreetly from where they stood by a police cruiser a fair distance away.

John successfully made it past the crime scene tape without incident, and made his way slowly back to the main road. He shouldn’t have been disappointed when he didn't see Sherlock there. But somehow, his chest grew heavy with despondency all the same.

As he ambled down the pavement, he pulled out his mobile in a last ditch effort to make himself feel like the night had come to a fulfilling close.

_Heading home, but let me know if there’s anything else you need help with tonight. Otherwise, have a good night, Sherlock. -JW_

No response came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update next Saturday!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief warning for some drugs in this chapter, but it's not as vivid as the last one involving drug-usage. And it'll be the last one where drug-use is a central theme.
> 
> Enjoy!

_**Text Message From: John Watson** _

_**Received: Saturday**_

_**23:18** _

_Heading home, but let me know if there’s anything else you need help with tonight. Otherwise, goodnight, Sherlock. -JW_

 

**_Sunday_ **

**_10:43_ **

_Any luck in whatever you buggered off to do? Might be odd of me to worry, but I hope you made it home safely. -JW_

 

_**17:36** _

_The Blessington case is on the evening news. -JW_

 

**_17:39_ **

_They aren’t saying much. But they haven’t definitively ruled it a suicide, so that’s good, isn’t it? -JW_

 

_**18:01** _

_Wow. I really don’t care for Sally Donovan. -JW_

 

_**18:02** _

_Or her fuckbuddy. Weaselly wee git, he is. -JW_

 

_**18:07** _

_You’re probably busy. Sorry. I’ll leave you alone. Have a good night. -JW_

 

_**Tuesday** _

_**09:23** _

_Article in the paper today mentioned potential leads in the case. That your doing? -JW_

 

_**09:28** _

_Let me know if you need anything. -JW_

 

_**Wednesday** _

_**11:12** _

_Are you going to be coming in today? It’s been a week since you came in, didn’t know if you planned on sticking to the weekly thing. -JW_

 

_**15:20** _

_My only opening today is at 4:00. If you were planning on dropping by. -JW_

 

_**17:03** _

_Office is closed now, but I’ll hang behind if you want to stop by. -JW_

 

_**17:05** _

_Or let me know if you want to meet up somewhere again. -JW_

 

_**17:31** _

_I’ll take this to mean you’re not dropping by. -JW_

 

_**17:46** _

_I’m heading home. Call me if you need anything. Really. -JW_

 

_**Thursday** _

_**13:21** _

_There’s a lull in leads, according to the news. I hope you’re not dead. -JW_

 

_**14:04** _

_And if you’re not dead, you could let me know, maybe. -JW_

\---

This unyielding concern was reaching Mycroft levels of ridiculousness, Sherlock thought to himself as he scrolled through the text messages he’d received from John over the past several days; it was no small wonder that the man’s sandy-blond hair was prematurely greying, if he fretted over all of his patients like this.

The unsavoury thought of being _just another patient_ wasn’t enough to stifle the pleasant warmth that seeped into Sherlock’s chest and seemed to settle in the bones of his ribcage, however, as he read and re-read the messages. It was unusual to have someone who wasn’t blood worry at all about him. Besides his dealers, of course; but the motivation behind their mild concern for his well-being stemmed from his being a source of income. Never before had Sherlock experienced concern for his livelihood past the obligatory familial sort; his brother kept constant tabs on him while his parents got information through their eldest son. Other than that, as far as Sherlock was concerned, no one cared. No one had cared for a long time.

And then came John Watson.

Doctor John H. Watson: Ex-army doctor, former soldier, and surgeon-turned-therapist.

The man was interesting in a way very few things were.

Truly unremarkable on the outside; stuffy, unflattering jumpers that left everything to the imagination; a walking palette of bland and beige tones, with his oatmeal-coloured jumpers and his worn blue-jeans and his tanned skin and sandy-blond hair; he took his Earl Grey black and his coffee blacker; his smile was practised and easy, charming without effort and without fail; his after-work routine likely consisted of taking a trip to Tesco to grab jam and biscuits (his favourite being Digestives) - he was, for all whose eyes should fall upon him, an unassuming, ordinary, average man.

But Sherlock saw so much more.

He saw a man who drank a cuppa with the morning paper at his kitchen table, with a loaded firearm tucked away in his pants drawer across the flat. He saw a man who left the security of home to go and shoot at strange men in a desert. He saw a man who held lives in his hands; both as a doctor wielding sterilised instruments of stainless steel, and as a soldier with a trigger-finger, wielding a gun in a practised grip.

His charm was certainly practised, likely something he’d perfected in university or in the army to tempt and lure young women to his bed. _And men_ , he reminded himself, thrilled that he’d managed to procure that bit of knowledge, though he wasn’t entirely certain _why_ it seemed like such a grand piece of information. Nevertheless, Sherlock tucked the detail away in a folder that sat on a familiar deep, black cherry stained oak desk, in a new, small room in his Mind Palace with two twin armchairs and the lingering scents of tannin and cheap, but subtle and pleasant cologne.

Sherlock had spent more time in and around this new room than he cared to admit. And while the time he spent in there certainly wasn’t devoid of mulling over the finer details of John Watson, the space was dedicated to more than just a fanciful borderline-obsession; the room, and its atmosphere, brought about a sense of serenity and security that he otherwise lacked. It had proved, thus far, to be an almost therapeutic place where the detective could pour over case details; and while the John Watson in his head was no match for the real thing, this figment still wasn’t too bad of a soundboard for Sherlock to bounce ideas off of.

But the more time he spent in figment-John’s presence, the more Sherlock fretted over just why this man, after less than a month, had managed to tip Sherlock’s self-centric universe on its axis enough to garner his own suite in his Mind Palace. There were very few _real_ rooms in his Mind Palace; his childhood bedroom was one of them, the music room in his grand-mère’s estate in Provence, France was another, with an en-suite with a view of the lavender fields. Other rooms were made up; perhaps modeled after existing places, but none of them had a perfect likeness to a place of Sherlock’s past, as he didn’t oft appreciate being reminded of his past in most instances.

Sherlock didn’t know. He knew that John Watson looked ordinary and was anything but. He knew that John Watson was the human embodiment of juxtaposition. He knew that John Watson was a puzzle. But he _didn’t_ know why all of that, instead of making his head whir and blood pump with the thrill of a good mystery, made his heart pound in a different sort of stuttered rhythm that had nothing to do with the rationale of his brain; he _didn’t_ know why John Watson’s room in his Mind Palace was as warm as a cable-knit jumper and as welcoming as a hot cuppa and as bright as an ex-army doctor’s charming smile. He _didn’t know._

And the fact that he didn’t know was getting in the way of the Work.

Mycroft had called him late Saturday evening, whilst he was at the crime scene at Blessington’s café with John, conveniently letting him know the last known locations of the Russian brothers, and he’d run off without another word to John, Lestrade, or anyone else.

In the days since, he’d been a wreck; high almost constantly as he fought physical and mental exhaustion, strove viciously against the physical need for sustenance, and battled valiantly to dismiss the distracting puzzle of _John._

He’d successfully ignored John for the most part, aside from the occasional reminder when he checked his mobile to see missed texts, and had managed to gather a few pieces of evidence that he deemed crucial:

_Cartwright_

_Biddle_

_Sutton_

_Hayward_

_Tobin_

_Porto_

_Norah Creina_

 

The titles were seared into the insides of Sherlock’s eyelids from looking at them so much where he’d written them in his notepad, and he ruminated over what leads they might bring to light (that he hadn’t already tracked down and discarded). He sat silently at the window seat in his grand-mère’s salon and looked out the large window at the lavender fields, plants toussled lightly by a playful breeze, puzzling over what evidence he was missing, when a nudge at his arm brought him out of his reverie.

“Oi, Shez.”

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and looked up from where he was standing against a wall with crumbling plaster in a room dimly lit with scattered candles, into the smarmy, grinning face of one Victor Trevor. “Back to the land of the living, are we?” the man crooned, inching closer, and Sherlock fought the urge to grimace.

“I’m coming down,” Sherlock explained pointedly, jaw set and eyes hard with the unshakable determination of someone chasing a high, desperate for the next fix.

“And you need me,” Victor grinned smugly.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. “I need what you’ve got. Come on, hand it over.”

“Hmm.” Victor hummed, raising one hand to stroke at his own chin in an over-dramatic display of pondering. “Price of admission today… I’ll take you on your knees for ten minutes, how’s that sound?” His grin made Sherlock want to gag.

“As if you’d last that long,” Sherlock quipped, much to the amusement of a few people blissed out on rotting mattresses nearby.

Victor’s eyes flashed, but he kept a sickeningly-sweet smile plastered on his face, crooked teeth glinting in the dim light. “You’re cute. Cocaine does wonderful things, love.” He sighed, then, before carrying on. “But I suppose you’ve money this time since I’m not giving you a freebie; you’ve always got cash when it’s convenient for you. So go on, fork it over,” he said, and held out a hand.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Sherlock said mockingly, a sneer in his words, “maybe next time.” He fisted his pocket for cash.

“You always say that,” Victor murmured with a soft tutting sound and exaggerated sadness, but his expression morphed into one of pleasant surprise when Sherlock deposited a fifty-pound note in his outstretched hand. “Fuck, alright. Hold on,” he murmured, and stuffed the note deep into one pocket before wandering off into some dim corner of the room.

Sherlock sighed and rocked back on his heels impatiently; he was just stopping by for a hit and a bit for the road, and then he was going to chase what he felt were the beginnings of a lead over by Westminster. He was already planning out routes in his head and figuring where he could get a cab at this hour when Victor came sauntering back across the room with a smug smile on his face and a syringe in his hand.

“Got one all loaded up for you, love,” he said, and held out a hand for Sherlock’s arm, which the other man gave up with no hesitation. The detective had shed his coat and rolled up both of his sleeves when he’d first entered the run-down house in his eagerness, and it had paid off, because within seconds, Victor was fastening a tourniquet around Sherlock’s bicep (wholly unnecessary, Sherlock thought with an eye-roll), gliding a cold needle across his skin in the dim light before finding a vein, and expertly puncturing his flesh. Sherlock watched as a drop of red mixed in artfully with the clear liquid in the syringe, and took a slow breath as he watched Victor push down the plunger.

He closed his eyes in preparation for the familiar feeling of calm and sharp focus, but when Victor pulled the tourniquet off of his arm and retracted the needle, something felt off. And then Sherlock opened his eyes to see Victor’s shit-eating grin. And then the room tipped sideways.

Sherlock gasped as he took a step back, his back hitting the wall and his hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface behind him as he looked around frantically; he was still standing, but it felt like his head had hit the floor. “What the fuck is this?” he asked on a hurried breath, eyes wide and frantic.

Victor’s grin only grew. “Isn’t it fucking _great?_ James hit me up with it; it’s fucking _mental_. Isn’t it??” He sounded like a child introducing a friend to his favourite telly programme.

“What-” Sherlock shook his head, but felt nauseous and decided he should not be shaking his head. “Yeah, yes, fine,” he said, and pushed himself off of the wall, and valiantly tried not to stumble. Victor looked giddy. “Whatever. Just- give me some coke for the road. I’ve got to go.”

“Fine, alright. Let me know how that shit works out for you; I can hook you up with more anytime you like. It’ll cost you a pretty penny, though,” Victor said with a wink. He sounded like he was under water.

“Alright,” Sherlock said, suddenly agreeable, no bite in his words as he thoughtlessly took the baggie that Victor handed him, and then the detective turned and made his way out the door.

It took ages. Or, it seemed to take ages, as the drug- whatever it was -started to kick in a bit more. Time was going backwards. Or forwards. Or sideways. And by the time he’d managed to locate his coat, put it on, and get out of the house, an endeavour that took about five minutes and felt like two hours, Sherlock had nearly forgotten what he’d set out to do in the first place.

Something about Portugal. And Hemmingway. And Toby. Right?

He stood under a flickering streetlight just outside the shabby building and pulled out his notepad, flipping through the pages with trembling fingers, but he didn’t get to the list of names before he noticed that the writing on the page he was on was bleeding together. The black and blue ink was dripping down the page, inky spirals that looped around and into each other and spilled off the page, painting the ground, painting _him_ -

It was then that he realised it was raining.

_Pouring._

It was probably a blessing in disguise, the fact that the weather had taken such a dismal turn, because if it weren’t for the torrential downpour, there would likely be more than a few people on the streets. It wasn’t terribly late, only half-nine on a Thursday, but the deluge had scared the less-adventurous and more-sane inside, and the only people out were buried beneath dark umbrellas and bustling past; too distracted to notice Sherlock, who was ambling along at a pace slow enough to manage without stumbling, in awe of how each individual raindrop felt and sounded against his hair, his coat, his skin. Everything, he watched, as it was rewound and fast-forwarded again, and then he watched as everything went strange, turning into geometric shapes of different diluted colours, washed dull by the rainwater. His breathing was rapid, and his heartbeat out-pounded the sound of the rain, and the lights from street lamps and shops that struggled to shine through the curtain of water blinded him, and the water dripped down his face and got into his mouth and his nose and he was _drowning_ -

All at once, he was panicking. Too much; an onslaught of sensation, being weighed down by a heavy, rain-soaked coat, rainwater bogging down his shoes (how long had he been outside?), his hair hanging in soaked tendrils over his eyes, blocking out his peripherals and narrowing his vision, like a scared horse with blinders, the sound of the rain and the thunder transforming into a million pounding, unseen hooves. He flailed as he stumbled to the end of the street, breathing rapidly and trembling with adrenaline, cold, and fear. He didn’t even look before crossing the road, and the sounds of car horns startled him enough that he nearly fell over, but instead he managed to only tumble into the side of a building on the other side of the street before blindly making his way down the walkway. He didn’t know where he was, only that he was nowhere near his flat on Montague Street. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he knew what was waiting there. After hours (days? Minutes?) of walking, a sudden turn had him tripping over his feet, which felt far too large, up a short set of stairs, which then sent him crashing through an unfamiliar door.

Another set of stairs proved to be a challenge, though he was appeased when the door he’d come through closed behind him and blocked out most of the noise of the rain. Now his breathing, his heart, and his footfalls were the only things deafening him as he made his way up the stairs, the cold metal of the banister held firm in one white-knuckled grip.

A short hallway followed, and the design on the threadbare carpet nearly made Sherlock ill as dirty, tread-worn shapes stood out in the third-dimension to trip him. But he made it past the treacherous carpet-shapes and came to stand before a doormat, where he nearly fell over as he searched for a key he already knew would be there, before fumbling with the lock of the door behind the mat and pushing his way into the flat on the other side.

The door closed behind him and he didn’t bother to lock it. The squeak of his wet shoes against cheap linoleum and then hardwood joined the din of his laboured breathing and his racing heart to negate the deafening silence of the room. The sporadic lighting that had tortured him outside contrasted greatly with the lighting inside the small room; there was a lamp on a small table by the bed in the corner of the room which filled the room with a soft light that enveloped Sherlock in a blanket of warmth. Though the light was still far too many colours and he swore he could _smell_ it, he preferred it to the outside. His legs, trembling, nearly gave out under him, and Sherlock, unthinkingly, stumbled to the neatly-made bed, where he threw himself down and landed with his face half-buried in the pillow.

His last conscious thought was of how the pillow smelled of tannin and cheap, but subtle and pleasant cologne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, where did our detective end up?
> 
> Update next Saturday!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for clicking your way here, read, and enjoy!

There was a time not so long ago when John would have given his left arm for a bit of rain.

Now, nearly two years later, John had a bullet wound in his left shoulder and all the rain he could ever wish for.

Too much rain.

_ Far too much rain _ , he thought with a grimace plastered to his face as he made himself as small as possible, nestling down into the collar of his jacket, arms held tightly to his sides as he walked briskly along the pavement. He stayed as close to the buildings to his right as possible, though the modest overhangs did little to shelter him from the deluge of rainwater.

The skies had been threateningly overcast all day, clouds hanging low in the sky, dark and ominous, pregnant with rain. The air had been pleasantly cool, but dismally humid, heavy, weighty, almost viscous, feeling as though very soon it would start to actually hinder movement.

But the tension had broke and the heavens opened up and now John was hurrying home from a trip to the shops he’d intended to be quick; he’d picked up milk and had neglected the bread for toast and jam, which was sure to leave him wanting for breakfast in the morning. To avoid a lackluster start to his day, he’d decided to run back out and grab bread, only to find himself turning back towards home less than halfway to the grocery as the rain switched from a shower to a bloody monsoon.

Soaked-through and breadless, John picked up his pace when he saw the light at the front of his building shine dimly through the heavy curtain of rain, motivated by the promise of his warm bed and a nice cuppa, and he nearly tripped up the stairs in his eagerness before he tumbled through the front door of the building of flats with a heavy exhale of relief. Shutting the door behind him, John let his breathing even out as he attempted to shake his soaked hair free of some excess rainwater, before stripping off his sopping jacket. He shivered as the tepid air of the building cooled his wet clothes hanging off of his damp body, the chill settling deep into his bones as he began to ascend the stairs to the second floor where his flat was.

He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and made his way down the hallway, fishing his keys out of his pocket, his footsteps sounding softly on the thinly-carpeted floor as he came to stand in front of his door.

His feet didn’t even reach the mat in front of his door before he froze.

It was entirely possible, he thought, for a neighbour, or a delivery person, to have come past his door where they knocked his mat a couple inches to the left. But that entailed someone coming very,  _ very _ close to his door. Too close to his door. John looked up at the door leading to his flat, his tongue darting out from between his lips to moisten them anxiously out of habit, before looking back down at the mat.

He wouldn’t pretend to have an eidetic memory; the only reason he knew straight away that the mat had been moved was that the carpet underneath it was a slightly-more vibrant shade of olive than that which had been tread on regularly, and an entire inch of relatively-clean olive was showing on two adjacent sides of the brown mat. So clearly, whoever had been lurking around John’s mat hadn’t been terribly careful.

John took a fortifying breath before bending down slowly and lifting a corner of the mat to find his spare key gone. 

He couldn’t say he was surprised, but his eyes flew to the door where he stared for a long few moments while adrenaline coursed through him, leaving a dull, even thrum of energy sparking beneath his skin. Slowly, he rose back to his feet and inhaled, deliberating.

He'd been gone half an hour; maybe a little less. He had designed his living situation around the idea that he could pack everything he owned into a duffle and a couple boxes at a moment’s notice. A few things would be left behind, but the point was that John didn’t own much, so it wouldn't take long for a robber to rifle through all of his things. And he certainly didn’t own anything of value, besides a laptop, a television, and a pair of random cufflinks he was certain were actually rubbish, which would shorten the search significantly. His other valuables, his watch and his mobile, were on his wrist and in his pocket, respectively. Other than that, he didn’t have anything else of value.

Except for his gun. Which was in his nightstand drawer.

John suddenly wished with every iota of his being that he’d ditched Ella’s advice to  _ stop _ carrying it with him everywhere in the event something bad happened, because this was  _ exactly the type of shite he needed his gun for. _

So whoever was (potentially) inside his flat had the potential of being armed; if they didn’t have a gun of their own to begin with, they may very well have gotten ahold of John’s. And John had nothing.

A sense of calm focus overwhelmed him and quieted the frantic thoughts in his brain while blocking out the sounds of the rain outside and the pounding of his heart in his ears as one hand reached out to wrap eerily-steady fingers around the doorknob. It turned easily with a gentle, slow rotation of his wrist;  _ unlocked. _

No light greeted him from the small foyer that opened up into the kitchen, but the harsh light from the hallway streamed past him to fall on the wooden floor just over the threshold, revealing droplets of standing water;  _ footprints - someone came from outside, not long enough ago for the water to evaporate. _

The flat was silent.

John quietly pushed the door the rest of the way open, ignoring the soft groan of protest from weary hinges as he stepped over the threshold as quietly as he could manage. He sidestepped the wet footprints and walked evenly heel-to-toe to avoid as much squeaking as he could, and he let the door close behind him with a soft ‘click’. The hardwood turned into cheap linoleum as he moved into the kitchen, but he stopped walking, and he could have sworn his heart stopped beating, when his eyes fell upon a dark lump of something- or  _ someone _ -on his bed. The breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding began burning his lungs, so he let it out slowly as his eyes scanned the rest of the small bedroom and kitchen; literally nothing had been touched, to his knowledge. But there was someone in his bed.

Or maybe it was a pile of coats and sheets and clothes, and a burglar was lurking in the closet or in the bathroom, waiting for John to arrive home and approach the bed to strike.

A fanciful thought, he decided, and pursed his lips at the definite shape of a  _ body _ as he crept slowly closer. The linoleum gave way once again to hardwood and John easily avoided the spots on the floor he knew from experience would groan under his weight, his heart beating faster with every step taken forward. His eyes darted to the bedside table, where he knew his gun to be; unless whoever was in his bed had the gun, in which case John would have to rely on his own brute strength to overpower the other. Which probably wouldn’t be terribly difficult, John thought, as his eyes roamed quickly over the body in his bed, because even with the large black coat on, the person still looked incredibly thin--

Hold on.

A long, dark coat, a thin, pale hand hanging off the side of the bed, one Yves Saint Laurent hanging over the edge, and as John drew closer, he detected the faintest smell of cigarettes.

“Sherlock?”

The sudden drastic shift from high-alert defense to overwhelming concern and confusion nearly made John dizzy as he let out a forceful breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. He approached the bed and what remained of his doubts dissipated as his eyes came to settle on a mop of wet, dark curls and an angular cheekbone just barely visible where the intruder’s face was mostly-buried in the pillow.

John’s head was full of questions that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the answers to.

A gentle snore assured John that Sherlock was in fact alive and breathing, which John was glad for, because it meant he wouldn’t have any brushes with law enforcement officials to end his already-miserable day.

But  _ why _ was Sherlock  _ here? _ In John’s flat, in John’s  _ bed… _

John pursed his lips as a potential justification came to mind, and he held his breath as he inched forward, reaching one hand out, index and middle fingers pressed together, poised and ready to press against a part of Sherlock’s neck that was exposed to the air between his damp coat collar and riotous, wet curls-

A sharp intake of breath that didn’t come from John pierced the silence and the man on the bed turned over, and in a move that was almost as quick as the lightning flash that lit up the sky outside of John’s window, one pale, clammy hand reached up to wrap spindly fingers in a vice-like, albeit quaky grip around John’s wrist.

Pale verdigris eyes, huge with shocked terror, stared up at John- and the doctor noted how, in the soft, golden light of the room, he could barely tell the colours of Sherlock’s eyes due to how dilated his pupils were; and it wasn’t for lack of light. Sherlock’s breath drew raggedly, noisily, between his lips with such force that John could feel the man’s breath on his hand where it was held fast by Sherlock’s. But the grip loosened when Sherlock’s brain apparently caught up to his bloodshot eyes, and he gave a stuttering sigh with the doctor’s name on his breath.

“John,” Sherlock croaked out, sounding both relieved and confused; as though he couldn’t actually believe that John was actually there. John wondered briefly if Sherlock even knew where he was. “It’s raining.”

John quirked one eyebrow at the non-sequitur, but supposed it wasn’t too terribly off-topic; the rain pattered heavily against the window pane, and both he and Sherlock were sopping wet.

Sherlock was sopping wet. And it was then that John realised that the man was shivering. Violently.

“You’re soaked,” John said, and was motivated into action by concern for the other man. “You’re soaking wet, and I’ve the air on- Sherlock. Sherlock,” he said, waving a hand in front of the man’s face to gain his attention, as the detective had found a sudden interest in something on the ceiling. “Sherlock,” John said again when he’d managed to capture the man’s interest again, “stand up. You’re going to catch your death in this cold whilst wearing sopping clothes. Up, up.  _ Up. _ ” 

With some amount of effort, the doctor was able to haul Sherlock to a sitting position, turned so his feet were on the floor between where he sat and where John stood, and, seeing as Sherlock’s limbs were apparently now made of lead, John took it upon himself to divest the man of his coat. He crouched in front of Sherlock, whose head lolled to the side and then forward, as if he were nodding back to sleep where he sat. He swayed, and John put a hand on the man’s shoulder to steady him, before moving said hand to the side of Sherlock’s neck, intending to slide under the collar of his coat to push it off of his shoulders, but Sherlock made a pitiful noise, a soft hum, and pushed lightly into the contact of John’s hand, his head tilting to the same side, eyes pinched shut and brow creased with something akin to concentration. John’s heart twinged at the sight, and he sighed.

“What have you done to yourself?” he asked softly, the one hand staying in place while the other reached up to press two fingers to where he knew Sherlock’s carotid artery would be. Beneath the skin - which was hot to the touch - Sherlock’s pulse hammered against John’s fingers, and John pursed his lips as he counted the seconds.  _ One… two… three… four… - _

“Didn’t,” Sherlock slurred, and then sighed as his body swayed forward, and John had to take his fingers away from Sherlock’s neck to press to Sherlock’s chest. He’d been able to hold them there long enough to get a rough reading, and the numbers that ran through his head gave him somewhere around  _ 170bpm _ , which he sincerely hoped he was wrong on. He stood, and let out a soft huff of air as Sherlock hummed and leaned forward further to press his head to the front of John’s jumper. Which at least, John thought, freed up his hands to push Sherlock’s heavy wool coat off of his shoulders and back onto the bed. 

“You did something,” the doctor murmured as he reached to tug the sleeves of the coat all the way off of Sherlock’s arms so he could toss it off to the side, which revealed a shirt he couldn’t tell the colour of, but that looked black because of how wet it was, plastered to Sherlock’s thin frame. His  _ incredibly _ thin frame, John thought to himself as he kneeled again when it appeared Sherlock could stabilise himself once more, and he automatically reached for the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock murmured, and it sounded like displeasure. “Told you no,” he mumbled, and John frowned, his hands freezing where they were working at the top button.

“What?” John asked, fearful he’d done something wrong, but Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes heavily-lidded, and his features smoothed out again. 

“Oh,” the man said, as if coming to a realisation. “John.” One hand raised and flicked at the air weakly. “Carry on.”

John frowned, but went back to unfastening the buttons of Sherlock’s soaked shirt regardless. “Who did you think I was?” he ventured.

“Victor,” Sherlock replied easily on a sigh. “Told ‘im no.”

John willed himself not to pursue that topic with more questioning, because he wasn’t sure he wanted any more answers. At least not when Sherlock was in this state; clearly intoxicated, and cold, and too willing to give up information he might otherwise prefer to be left undisclosed. 

“Right,” the doctor said instead, finishing up with the last button of the shirt. After a brief struggle where he attempted to peel the fitted, soaked garment off of Sherlock’s skin, over his shoulders and down both his thin arms, John tossed it aside where it fell with a soft ‘plop’ onto the wooden floor near the kitchen by the coat; he’d wash it later. When he turned back to the bed, he found Sherlock falling backwards to flop back onto the duvet, his arms stretching above his head, and his wrists knocked against the wall on the other side of the bed. “The hell are you doing?” John asked incredulously, sitting back on his haunches where he stayed on the floor.

Sherlock just hummed lowly again, and John could swear the vibration of the low timbre shook the floor. “Aren’t you going t’ help me with my trousers?” Sherlock asked, voice like murky water, and John narrowed his eyes as he imagined he could  _ hear _ the smug smirk on the bastard’s face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, and pretended his voice hadn’t jumped up half an octave.

“They’re  _ wet _ , John,” Sherlock whined, and John rolled his eyes as he looked down to Sherlock’s feet, which were still stuffed into his shoes. He reached for them.

“Shoes first,” he commentated as he tugged the waterlogged things off, tossing them over to join the wet bundle of shirt and coat, before he stood and reached for Sherlock’s belt. He was  _ very _ careful with his hands as he undid the fastenings of the man’s trousers, and he forcibly squashed the odd, fluttery feeling in his stomach; he was a doctor, and a soldier. He’d undressed probably hundreds of people, both in intimate and professional situations; this was a professional situation. He’d been in group showers in uni with rugby teammates, and in the army. He’d handled more bollocks and stuck his fingers inside more people than he could count in checking for signs of testicular and prostate abnormalities. Anatomy was just that; anatomy. And he wasn’t letting himself get squeamish just because of  _ whose _ anatomy he was dealing with.

With his fortitude strengthened by his professionalism and past experience, he tucked his fingers into the sides of Sherlock’s waistband and tugged. He made quick progress, and when he was again kneeling, working the wet garment around and off of Sherlock’s bony ankles, pulling his socks free with it, from above he heard a soft sigh, a shudder, and he saw Sherlock’s skin break out into gooseflesh; things that he could only assume were caused by the damp skin’s exposure to the cool air.

Once the trousers, belt, and socks were disposed of, he looked up from his place back on the floor, eyes skimming past the black briefs that hugged Sherlock’s form, to look at what he could see of Sherlock’s face. “Pants?” he inquired.

He was met with a hum, and John quirked his lips before deciding that Sherlock would likely be more than a little spooked once he sobered up and found himself lacking pants in an unfamiliar flat, and so decided it was best that he leave them; damp or not.

“Alright,” said John, grimacing in mild pain as he pushed himself to his feet once more, and crossed his arms as he looked at the man half on his bed, bare feet on the floor, wearing only a pair of pants. The doctor sighed heavily. “I’ll go and get you some clothes. Doubt I have a pair of trousers long enough for you, but I’ll see,” he murmured, and went to his small closet to dig through his drawers for something warm.

He re-emerged a short time later with an old jumper that had long been worn thin and a little stretched out, but was soft and comfortable. The sleeves might even reach Sherlock’s wrists. His search had also produced a pair of sweatpants that were just a touch too long for John and were better than nothing. The doctor approached the bed, where Sherlock was still sprawled, and John’s eyes went to the man’s concave stomach and his prominent ribs, and then to his chest where John swore he could  _ see _ where the man’s frantic heart was trying to pound its way through the flesh. The man was skin and bone and little else, but John knew that wasn’t something he could fix on the spot; that would have to wait for later. 

“Sherlock,” he coaxed, and set the dry clothes on the bed, one hand reaching out to touch Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock made a soft sound and turned his head, his eyes opening to blink up at John. “Come on, I’ve got dry clothes for you,” John said temptingly, and it seemed to work, as Sherlock pushed himself, with a little effort, to sit up again. John smiled softly. “There we go. Here,” he said quietly, soothingly, as he shook out the jumper and pulled the loosened neckline easily over Sherlock’s head, before guiding the man’s thin arms into the sleeves. John was pleased to find that the sleeves damn near reached Sherlock’s wrists.

Next, he kneeled again, sweatpants in hand, and worked Sherlock’s feet into the legs before pulling them up as far as he could without having Sherlock stand. “Can you stand for me?” he asked, and Sherlock made a herculean effort to push himself up off of the bed, though he was shaky on his feet. John stood quickly and shimmied the sweatpants the rest of the way up, and had only just gotten done when Sherlock suddenly swayed forward again, his entire weight leaning into John.

“Woah there,” John said, one foot shifting back to stabilise himself as his arms instinctively wrapped partway around the taller man’s slim waist. Sherlock made himself small, curling up against John’s shoulder and chest, seemingly taken in by the warmth the doctor produced. John’s heart ached for him.

He sighed. “Sherlock, hey. Get into the bed,” he said softly while he carefully shuffled them around so that he could reach out and pull back the duvet. Seemingly reluctantly, Sherlock complied, peeling himself away from the shorter man to turn back to the bed and fall with little grace, where he then curled up and buried his face against the pillow, just like he’d been when John had first found him. Carefully, he reached out to gather the duvet and pull it up over Sherlock’s body, now clothed in warm, dry garments from John’s own closet, and he tucked it gently around the man’s shoulders.

He then watched as Sherlock gave yet another soft hum and rolled slightly onto his side, his body curling up under the duvet, instinctively doing what it could to generate and preserve body heat. His shivering had ceased, John noticed, and his breathing had evened out. While John was sure his pulse would still be a bit high, he was confident that Sherlock wasn’t in danger of perishing; from what he could tell, these weren’t signs of an overdose. He was cold from the rain, delirious from what he could only assume was reckless and copious drug-usage, but otherwise okay. And anyway, he was in safe hands now, whether he realised where he was and who he was with or not.

Before John realised he was doing it, he reached out to brush the back of his hand over Sherlock’s forehead, feeling his temperature, and Sherlock made a noise before pushing once again into the contact, and John felt his heart break yet again. He slid his hand around to push his fingers into still-wet, raven curls and got a sound not unlike a mewl in response, but he forced himself to end the gentle caress and take his hand away as he took a step away from the bed. He let his gaze linger, though, on the inky curls falling in rain-damp rivulets over Sherlock’s pale forehead, on the one cheek smooshed against John’s pillow, on the peaceful look that overcame Sherlock’s face as sleep overtook him, before the doctor let out a long breath and turned away.

He felt exhausted. Emotionally more than physically. He’d have to wait until Sherlock woke up again to ask just what the hell had happened, and just  _ why _ he decided to break into John’s flat; though he found that he wasn’t angry. The concern he felt for his patient overcame the concern for his own security - though in hindsight, perhaps a key under the mat in front of his door wasn’t the smartest idea. 

The damp clothes, he picked up, to give himself something to do, and put them in an empty grocery bag by the door. He then grabbed the long black coat and his own discarded jacket to hang them both over the backs of the two chairs at the small table in the kitchen. Quickly, he checked the fridge and his cupboards to be sure he had at least a suitable amount of food for two people for breakfast, and after discovering a couple eggs, milk, some ham, some beans, a small amount of fruit, and a few containers of yoghurt, he figured they should be well-suited for breakfast; even without bread.

His adrenaline was leaving him, and he realised with a yawn that he was more exhausted physically than he thought. But his bed was taken, and a phantom twinge in his shoulder protested the small sofa before he got a chance to consider it. Regardless, he went to his closet and found a second pair of sweatpants for himself and a tee-shirt, which he took into the bathroom to quickly change into. The rain-damp jeans and jumper were tossed into his hamper, his teeth were brushed, his bladder emptied, his hands and face washed, and he was soon padding barefoot into the small sitting-slash-bedroom where his patient slept curled up in his bed. He wondered at how boring his life had been a mere month and a half prior.

After a moment of thought, he decided to busy himself on his laptop in the hopes that it would keep him occupied throughout the night. With renewed purpose, he strode over to sit at his desk and open his laptop where it sat plugged in atop the desk. He logged in and opened a webpage where he’d previously been looking at news reports of the most recent details of the case Sherlock had dragged him along to. With a soft exhale, John raised one arm to lean his elbow on the desk, his chin coming to rest perched in his hand, and his tired eyes skimmed the tail end of the article he hadn’t finished.

Before long, words began to blur, his vision was intermittently interrupted by brief bouts of darkness as his blinks grew slower with each passing moment, and the last thing he saw before his eyes closed for the final time was a photo of a Mr. Thomas Blessington, alive and well, giving a half smile to John where he was plastered alongside a paragraph of far too many words.

\---

It was thunder, not the ringing of an alarm, that woke him up.

It hadn’t even been a particularly loud crack of thunder; it had just been loud enough to cut through the ever-present sound of the steady rainfall to rouse John from his slumber. His first thought was about the time, and as he turned his head to look at his clock, his second thought was that he was  _ excruciatingly _ uncomfortable. He groaned loudly and wondered just why the fuck he wasn’t in bed - because he clearly wasn’t in bed - and then he blinked his eyes open to squint into the soft light cast by his bedside table, before the reason for his strange orientation came rushing back to him.

Slowly, John sat up from where he was leaned forward onto his desk, and with a grimace, he stretched his arms up and back, rolling his neck from side to side, his left shoulder twinging in protest of John’s choice for the night's sleeping arrangement. He’d have been better off to just lie on the floor. With a sigh, he slumped back in his chair and lolled his head to the side, eyes moving to his bed where a familiar form was still curled up, though he could tell that Sherlock had rolled over in his sleep and was now facing the wall, away from him. John could see the duvet rise and fall subtly with slow, even breaths, and was satisfied that his patient had survived the night. 

A glance at the clock revealed that it was just after nine in the morning, and John stifled a groan; he was supposed to work today at the clinic. But he couldn’t very well leave Sherlock to his own devices in his flat, let him wake up alone and confused. He knew there were other therapists; he was one of several in the practise at the university - his room just happened to be immediately adjacent to the receptionist area and lobby. His laptop was opened in front of him but the screen was black, so John woke the device up and navigated to his email to send out a quick, mass email explaining that he was feeling under the weather and asking if anyone could cover for him. An almost immediate response from another doctor informed him to get well soon and that she would cover him, and John sent her a sincere thanks before emailing all of the clients he’d had lined up for the day, telling them that another therapist would be willing to see them if they didn’t want to wait for a make-up session.

Satisfied that his work-related business was taken care of, John silently pushed his chair away from his desk and, as quietly as he could, stood and hobbled across the floor to the kitchen. Curiously, he took his coat off of the back of the chair and shook it gently so as to not create a bunch of noise, and put it back on the chair with a light frown when he found parts of it still slightly damp. He gave Sherlock’s coat the same treatment, but froze when he heard something fall out of the man’s pocket. His eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat when his gaze fell upon a small baggie of white powder, and his head whipped around to look at Sherlock, who was still fast asleep. 

John frowned heavily now, brows drawn down in anger and frustration, before he put the coat back and dug through the pockets. It might have been a bit of an invasion of privacy, but John was throwing that aside seeing as Sherlock had broken into his home. The least he could do was  _ not _ bring illegal substances into John’s place of living. So John felt perfectly justified in his actions as he took the small bag, as well as the small bottle of pills and the syringe he’d found, before marching silently into his bathroom. Without hesitation, he tore open the bag (carefully) and dumped the contents into the toilet. He rinsed out the baggie before burying it in the bottom of his rubbish bin, and then gave the pills and the pill bottle the same treatment. The syringe, he snapped the needle off of, and bent the plastic tube in half before wrapping them in a bit of toilet roll and stuffing them into the bin as well. 

Feeling accomplished, John admired his handiwork before flushing the toilet. The sound of rushing water had his bladder throbbing inside of him sympathetically, and so he took the time to run through his morning routine; he relieved himself, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, quickly showered and then shaved his face, and, once he was dry, re-dressed himself. He looked in the mirror and ran a hand haphazardly through his already-messy and damp hair before finally exiting the bathroom.

He did a double-take when he looked to the side to find Sherlock, half sitting up in the bed, looking at him. He froze where he stood, just outside his bathroom door, held fast by the cautious stare aimed at him from over the edge of his duvet, which had been pulled up just past Sherlock’s mouth. The two of them stayed that way, just looking at each other, both silent, both cautious, as though one movement or sound out of line would spook the other and shatter the delicate atmosphere surrounding them.

Sherlock was, eventually, the one to break the silence. “Good morning,” he said, voice low and dry, a little muffled by the duvet, and the tension in John’s shoulders dissipated.

He held his stance, though he gave a small smile. “Morning,” he rejoined, voice quiet, and he cleared his throat when his voice caught a little from lack of use. “How… how are you feeling?” he ventured.

At the question, Sherlock’s eyes darted off to the side, the skin between his brows pinching a little. “Quite horrid,” he murmured, and shifted in John’s bed enough for the duvet to slip down past his mouth, chin, and shoulders, though he wasn’t quite sitting upright yet. The younger man cleared his throat. “Do you mind… um. Ah- hm.” He looked horribly conflicted, and John had a feeling Sherlock wasn’t used to not knowing what was going on.

“You broke into my flat,” he explained, and he watched Sherlock’s expression shift to something more cautious, almost apologetic. “And I guess you just… passed out on my bed.” He offered a small smile. “I came home, you were delirious and shaking and a touch warm and your heart rate was up, so I got you some dry clothes and you went back to sleep.”

“I see.” Sherlock sat up a bit further and winced, closing his eyes and pushing back to lean against the wall at the head of the bed. His head lolled back to rest against the wall. “My pants are damp.” An observation with an unasked question.

John answered anyway. “Figured you wouldn’t care for a stranger to be removing those for you,” he said with a mild shrug.

Sherlock opened his eyes again with a sense of realisation. “You dressed me.”

For some reason, John’s cheeks grew warm. “Well you weren’t exactly in the right state to be doing it yourself. If I’d left you, you would have been shivering all bloody night. Speaking of your state,” he continued before Sherlock could interject, “what the  _ bloody _ hell were you on?”

A look that John couldn’t identify flashed across Sherlock’s face. “I’m… not entirely certain.”

John’s eyes widened in horror. “You  _ what _ ?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Sherlock grumbled, one hand coming up to press two fingers into his right temple, his eyes squinting shut. “My dealer- he just gave me something. I thought it was coke. It wasn’t.”

John let out a breath. “For fuck’s sake-”

“-I could do without the lecture, thank you,” Sherlock interjected smoothly. “Far too early in the morning for a scolding. I believe I’ve learnt my lesson.”

“That lesson being?” John asked skeptically.

“The lesson being that I should always  _ ask _ Victor to confirm that he hasn’t tampered with my drugs, and to only give me cocaine, please and thank you.” Sherlock’s sass knew no bounds, and John rolled his eyes.

“Quite,” he mumbled sarcastically, and he moved to the kitchen, if only to make himself look busy. He opened the fridge and peered inside. “Oh, and you’re welcome for not calling the cops, or, you know, throwing you out on the street,” he called back over his shoulder.

“You wouldn’t do that,” was the response he heard, quiet and knowing from in the direction of the bed, and John set his jaw, aggravated by how correct the statement was. He pretended he hadn’t heard it in favour of rummaging through the few items in his fridge, just to make noise. “Fancy a drink?” he asked. “I’ve tea, water… milk… and beer. But I’m not giving you beer.”

“I don’t drink beer,” came a voice that was much closer than it had been mere moments ago, and John spun around to find Sherlock leaning in the archway between the kitchen and the bedroom. The look of surprise on his face must have been comical, because Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and flashed a half-smirk, to which John narrowed his eyes and pushed onward with the dialogue.

“What do you drink, then?”

“Tea,” Sherlock answered, and looked around the small space, and John took the time to do a little observing of his own.

The clothes hung off of Sherlock’s frame in a way that reminded John of morning-afters where a woman would be wearing a jumper or tee-shirt and a pair of boxers of his; except this version of the picture had slightly broader shoulders, a much more subtle curve to his waist, longer limbs, and he looked hungover rather than freshly-shagged. The thin jumper’s sleeves were pulled down and held over Sherlock’s hands by the man’s fingers, which consequently revealed a bit more of his collarbones. A sliver of skin below where the jumper didn’t quite meet the waistband of the loose and low-hanging sweatpants revealed lethal-looking hipbones that John didn’t allow himself to linger over. Sherlock’s bony feet were crossed casually where he stood, and the sweatpants comically didn’t reach down to the tops of his feet, and thereby left a good chunk of ankle exposed to the air. A look back up at the man’s face and head revealed eyes that were tired but much clearer than they’d been the night prior, and his hair was a complete mess, but it suited him, John thought to himself. 

Thankfully, Sherlock chose that moment to look back at John and meet his gaze, and John only faltered a brief moment before picking up the line again.

“Uhh… I’ve got Earl Grey,” he offered, to which Sherlock sighed.

“Course you do.”

“So you’ll have that?”

Sherlock hummed and nodded, staying still where he was in the archway.

John nodded back and went about prepping for tea; he filled the kettle and set it on the stove to boil, and brought out the milk and what sugar he had, and only turned around when he heard the fridge opening. Sherlock was standing, bent at the waist, peering into the fridge, and John tried not to feel self-conscious about the contents. He didn’t have the chance to ask if Sherlock was looking for anything in particular before the man hummed in what sounded like pleasant surprise and reached into the fridge. His hand withdrew holding a small container of what John knew to be yoghurt, and he let himself smile softly with the knowledge that he had at least  _ something _ to offer the man besides  _ tea _ .

“You like yoghurt, then?” John asked, relieved.

Sherlock likely sensed the relief or saw it on John’s face, because he offered a soft smile when he looked up. “Yes. Though I usually prefer it with honey,” he gave a shrug, “this is fine.”

“Oh! I have honey,” John said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, and turned around to yank open a cupboard and go up on his toes to nab the bottle from where it sat to the side. He turned around and offered it to the other man.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, taking it, and he moved to stand at the counter, setting the yoghurt down and unscrewing the top off of the honey bottle to remove the plastic barrier underneath. “You don’t take honey,” Sherlock observed, and John thought for a moment about how clever he was before he realised that the bottle, obviously, had never been opened.

“Oh. Yeah,” John confirmed, and cleared his throat. “I was ill a while back and a friend brought it over. Said it was for my throat.” He made a face. “Not really my thing. Too sweet.”

Sherlock had managed to get a droplet of honey on his finger in his efforts to open the bottle, and was sticking his finger into his mouth when he looked back at John. John tried very hard not to focus on it. Thankfully, Sherlock decided to not suck on his finger for more than two seconds. “And yet you hoard jam. Which is quite sweet.” He smiled softly.

John, clearly recognising a threat to his precious jam collection when confronted with one, crossed his arms defensively. “Hey. Not  _ all _ jam is sweet. Have you had lingonberry jam?” he asked. “Tart. And lovely.” Sherlock’s smile grew and the man looked back down to where he fiddled with the top of the yoghurt cup, and John’s smile grew along with it. “Besides. It’s not like I’m eating jam out of the jar. It’s on toast.”

“Mm, yes. Perfect justification,” Sherlock said, his smile heard in his voice as he peeled the top of the yoghurt back, and only then did John think to grab him a spoon from a drawer. Sherlock accepted it with a silent nod of thanks before upending the honey bottle and pouring a generous amount into the spoon over the yoghurt, watched it overflow, and then kept pouring. John just watched, and surprise grew into almost-concern before Sherlock finally put the bottle down, tipped the spoon, and together they watched the translucent, golden, viscous substance drizzle off the end of the spoon into the cup.

“You’re gonna have more honey than yoghurt in there,” John commented, to which Sherlock scoffed.

“I’d be okay with that,” the taller said as he scooped up the cup and turned around to lean back against the counter, and he raised the spoon to pop it into his mouth upside down, humming softly as he sucked the sticky, sweet substance off of it.

It would have been a tantalising sight, but John grimaced. “God, that’s so much sugar. Fuck,” he said, and an unpleasant shiver ran through him as he turned to fiddle with the tea fixings, pulling out two mugs and preparing them with tea bags. 

Sherlock chuckled and pulled the spoon slowly out of his mouth. “I think my fondness for honey stemmed from my love of bees.”

“Bees? Really?” John asked.

Sherlock hummed an affirmative. “My grand-père kept them. I always wanted to do that when I got older.”

“Ah, see? There’s your hobby. Just keep bees, instead of doing drugs,” John said with a wry smile as he took the kettle off the stove.

“Ha, ha,” Sherlock said sarcastically, but John saw him smile out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps when I retire.”

John scoffed as he poured steaming liquid into the two mugs. “If you keep going how you are, you’ll be dead before you retire,” he said, and he heard Sherlock’s sigh.

“Yes, doctor. Thank you for your concern,” he said with an air of sarcasm that John could tell was thin. “I’m… working on it.”

“Working on it?” John asked with a dry, humourless laugh. “ _ Working _ on it- you turned up at my  _ flat _ , high off of your arse-- actually, yeah, there’s a question; how the  _ fuck _ did you wind up here?” he asked.

Sherlock just looked at him, spoon paused in its stirring to search John’s eyes, before he smirked.

“Your shoes,” he started, “the last time we met in the office, there was a gravel on the bottoms of your shoes present which hadn’t been there in times previous. It was accompanied by a fine rock dust consistent with the sort brought to sidewalks by construction sites. So you live near construction that started after we’d met. You keep your taxi receipts and throw them away when you get to the office; the first few I noticed were consistently around sixteen quid, and the last one was just over fourteen quid. So, a couple minutes of walking shaved off a bit of taxi travel time. This flat is a couple minutes away from construction which you know is at the end of the street, which detoured traffic enough for you to choose a different street to hail your taxi from that day. I’d narrowed it down to three buildings, and glancing at the post in each of the mailboxes just inside the front doors did the rest for me.” He very casually popped a spoonful of yoghurt into his mouth, eyeing John with a twinkle in his eye.

John’s mouth was hanging open, but he closed it, assuming an expression of cautious wonder. “That’s fucking brilliant. Jesus fucking Christ,” he exclaimed. “But I’m a little frightened. That’s… a bit creepy that you could find out where I live. Holy shite.” He blew out a breath. “Did you--  _ seriously _ ?” he asked.

Sherlock just snorted. “No. I looked you up in the directory shortly after our first appointment.”

“... Oh,” John said, blinking in surprise at the simplicity of it; of  _ course. _ Everyone is in the bloody directory. He let out a huff of a breath, and then dissolved into giggles. “Of course. The bloody  _ white pages. _ ” He laughed harder, and Sherlock joined him.

“Not everything has to be clever,” Sherlock said, and ate another spoonful of honey-and-yoghurt. 

John smiled and shook his head as he gathered his own mug of tea off of the counter. “Really? You had me convinced otherwise,” he hummed, and nodded to the fixings. “Help yourself. I don’t know how you like your tea.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, and he sounded more sincere than John had ever heard him be. John himself turned away from the counter and went to sit at the table with his tea, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as the man poured an obnoxious amount of milk and another obscene helping of honey into his tea. When Sherlock came to join him at the table, sitting down at the seat adjacent, John made a questionable sound.

“You know that’s an abomination to tea, yeah?” he asked, looking at Sherlock’s light-brown monstrosity. “Don’t let any  _ actual _ British people see you drinking it like that. You’ll be shunned.”

“I’m used to it,” Sherlock said nonchalantly, cleaning out the remains of the yoghurt container before picking up his tea and blowing over the surface, and John didn’t think the statement was supposed to be as dismal as it came out.

Not quite sure how to respond, John stayed silent, and the two of them stayed silent as they sipped tentatively at their respective teas, and John wondered at just how perfectly normal it felt to be sitting and having tea with Sherlock; Sherlock, who was wearing John’s jumper and John’s sweatpants; Sherlock who had broken into John’s flat whilst John had been out for bread; Sherlock who had been high off his arse a mere ten hours ago. He supposed the air of normalcy would break soon enough, but for the time being, he was content in letting it linger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!  
> I'd like to thank everyone who has read this and left wonderful kudos and wonderful comments. I love you all so much, it's so nice to know that people are actually enjoying what I (attempt to) write. Seriously. This being my first ever work, I wasn't expecting very much in terms of feedback, let alone positive feedback. I've received more than I could have hoped for from you guys. You are all awesome and I love each and every one of you. So thank you, thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.   
> Alright, enough sap. Hope you liked it, and stay tuned for an update next Saturday (or sooner, if I'm feeling motivated. :) ) <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone.
> 
> It's been a few weeks, and I apologise, but what can I say? Family things and life happen sometimes. Rest assured that all is well now and you can expect for updates to resume as planned. Here's a little something for you this evening (or morning, or afternoon) that I hope you'll enjoy before my next update, which will be VERY soon. 
> 
> Thanks so much for your understanding and patience, and thank you for sticking with the story. It's so much fun to write, and it's even better when you guys let me know how much you enjoy it. So thanks again. 
> 
> Onto the chapter!

Sherlock sat in content and concentrated silence at the small table in the kitchen; his elbows rested on the wooden surface and his hands were clasped in front of his chin, the knuckle of one index finger running over his own lips in an anxious, repetitive motion.

  
The soft clinking of the mugs and flatware in the sink as they were dutifully washed and rinsed lent an atmosphere of simple and quiet domesticity to the scene that Sherlock was unaccustomed to.

  
He’d awoken to the sounds of water running through unfamiliar pipes, the late-morning light streaming through a window at an unfamiliar angle, the feeling of unfamiliar clothes adorning his frame, and the sensation of his bare hands and feet sliding against sheets of an unfamiliar thread-count. The lone factor that had kept him from launching immediately into a panic was the scent that he was met with; his mind had supplied for him the connection between the aroma that lingered with stale rainwater on the pillow under his head, with that of a small and familiar office, and a particular ex-army doctor.

  
As he’d sat up and warily took in his surroundings, pieces of his memory slotted back into place; Victor with a syringe filled with _not cocaine_. A fair amount of rain and a bit of stumbling. And then warmth.

  
It would seem that no matter how quickly he bounced his knee under the table, or how vigorously he rubbed at his own mouth with his fingers, or how determinedly he stared at the blinking clock of the small microwave oven on the countertop across the kitchen, the details of the remainder of the night prior remained frustratingly elusive. The only physical piece of evidence that kept him from doubting the morality of a man he in truth barely knew was that he was dangerously close to chafing in a pair of pants that had been damp from rainwater and had gone unremoved.

  
Since the impromptu breakfast with the therapist, Sherlock had excused himself to the bathroom to relieve himself, and had done a full-bodied examination, pouring over every inch of himself to be absolutely sure he hadn’t neglected to recall something crucial; but aside from a fresh pinprick in the crook of his left elbow, he was unscathed. He wondered at how he’d managed to make it from Victor’s drug den to John’s flat alive, let alone unharmed. Regardless, he was satisfied with his self-inspection and decided it best not to count his blessings.

_Blessings;_ Sherlock was not a man of faith, the only things he put any stock in being those which could be scientifically proven. Blessings, coincidences, fate; the universe was rarely so lazy as to promote mere _happenstance._ And yet, as Sherlock let his eyes flicker over to survey the profile of the man standing at the sink, he couldn’t help but wonder at the circumstances.

  
He tried not to linger over the frankly troubling level of _trust_ he’d developed in John Watson.

  
John Watson, who currently wore a concentrated furrow in his brow as he scrubbed vigorously at the spoon Sherlock had coated in honey and yoghurt not half an hour ago.

  
John Watson, who had come into his flat late at night to find a patient high and unconscious in his bed, and hadn’t called the authorities.

John Watson, who’d dressed Sherlock in warm, dry clothes, who’d no doubt made a point to take his vitals and watch over him to be sure he wasn’t in danger of perishing, who’d made Sherlock tea and had sat at the kitchen table with him, quipping about tea and yoghurt and honey as if it were any other late morning.

  
It was then that Sherlock began to worry.

  
Up until this point, he had been cautious, but accepting; it was a scenario he never thought he would be in, and he was certain John felt the same. He was somewhat comfortable with the knowledge that they were both not expecting to wake up in the presence of one another this morning. It was uncharted territory for them both, and John, bless him, took it in stride, morphing into a proper, if impromptu host for his unexpected guest.

  
Up until this point, Sherlock had been content in ignoring the fact that he was very much infringing on John’s personal space, his property, and taking up his time; and while these were things the young detective normally didn’t give any thought to, he found that John was quickly becoming the exception to just about every guideline he’d posed for himself.

  
“John?” he asked, startling himself almost as much as the man at the sink, if the small intake of breath and slight tensing of shoulders from the other was anything to go by.

  
“Yeah?” John prompted, seemingly realising that he’d been scrubbing at the spoon for a few moments too long as he put it hastily aside on a small towel with the other clean dishes to dry. He turned off the tap, and shook his hands dry as he turned to lean back against the counter. His brow had taken on creases borne of inquisitiveness rather than concentration. Sherlock wondered absently if he should catalogue just how the creases in John’s face changed according to each expression the man adopted.

  
“I-” Sherlock paused and pursed his lips, his clasped hands falling to his lap where one set of fidgety fingers idly toyed with one fraying end of the drawstring in his borrowed sweatpants. “I’d like to take a moment to- to apologise.” His brow furrowed as he struggled to identify the odd taste of the apology on his tongue.

  
John’s head tilted in a way that made something in Sherlock’s chest ache with fondness. “What for?” the man asked, and he sounded genuinely perplexed, as though the apology was entirely unfounded and unnecessary.

  
In response, Sherlock’s eyes darted to the side, and he shrugged mildly as one hand rose from his lap to gesture vaguely at the space around them. “For everything. Your help. And your hospitality.” He swallowed, not daring to look back at his host. “I realise that my being here is highly inappropriate, and likely a significant inconvenience to you; you have work, and a life outside of it.”

  
“I’m going to stop you there,” John said before Sherlock could go any further, and Sherlock, obediently, fell silent at the firm and determined tone of the doctor’s voice. “Sherlock,” he addressed, and the detective could hear the man shifting his weight between his feet, along with a slight rustling of fabric signifying a change in posture. “I won’t lie and say that coming home to you lying in my bed _wasn’t_ a surprise,” he said, and Sherlock could almost assuredly hear the smile in his voice, “but… if I’m honest, I’m incredibly glad that I did.”

  
At that, Sherlock looked up, cautious surprise written in his features, but the small, disarming smile that met his eyes melted his insecurities. “In what way?” he asked.

  
“I’d rather not think of where you _might_ have ended up.” John didn’t explain further, and he didn’t need to. Sherlock just sucked his lips between his teeth and gave a slight nod. “All I know is that you probably ended up in the best place possible. Here you’ve got an experienced doctor, and you’ve avoided legal trouble,” the man quipped lightly with a gentle grin.

  
Sherlock found himself grinning back. “I suppose,” he agreed. “Regardless, I’m sorry to have caused you this inconvenience.”

  
John just waved a hand in the air and shook his head as he pushed away from the counter. “No, it’s not a problem; I’m thankful for the day off work, and I’m even more thankful for knowing that you’re alive and in good hands.”

  
A huff of air in lieu of a laugh left Sherlock’s nose in a rush as he looked back down at the table in front of him. John walked past him to do something unseen in the sitting room/bedroom behind Sherlock’s back. “I believe I’m in the best hands, Doctor,” he murmured with a gentle smile, loud enough for John to hear, and he was met with a soft hum of acknowledgement.

  
The pair of them remained silent for a short while longer; Sherlock studied the rings and lines in the wooden table while John tinkered around in the room behind him, before the creaking of wooden floorboards underfoot signified the doctor’s approach.

  
“How are you feeling?” the man asked as he came to a stop by Sherlock’s side.

  
Sherlock pretended that he couldn’t feel the warmth radiating off of the other man from this close, just as he pretended not to be dangerously close to leaning into it. “I’m fine,” he responded automatically, turning his head to look up at the other.

  
Clearly unconvinced, John reached out without hesitation to push Sherlock’s dark fringe aside and place the back of his fingers against the detective’s forehead. In response, Sherlock’s eyes slipped shut and he pushed unthinkingly into the contact, a soft sound emanating unwittingly from the back of his throat in reaction to the soothing coolness of John’s fingers, still slightly damp from doing the washing, against his own warmed skin. The contact solidified when John’s hand flipped over to press his palm against Sherlock’s forehead, and the young detective let out a slow sigh.

  
“Bit warm,” John said in a mumble, and Sherlock just hummed in response, savouring the contact until John pulled his hand away; and while the prolonged contact could have been seen as excessive, Sherlock was willing to forget entirely about professionalism for the moment. “You’ve been awfully twitchy,” the doctor continued, and Sherlock opened his eyes again to see the concern clearly written in John’s expression.

  
“These things tend to happen when I sober up,” Sherlock explained, though he didn’t feel confident. Whatever he’d been given the night previous wasn’t something he had experience with. He didn’t know how bad the crash would be, if there even was one; and he was pretty sure John wasn’t going to let him take a hit of something else to take any edge off. Before he knew what he was doing, he turned his head to glance at where his coat was hanging on a hook by the door (John had moved it there at some point, unbeknownst to him).

  
John hummed lowly from beside him, obviously catching the subtle motion. “Yeah, I disposed of what you had left in your pockets,” the man said, and Sherlock didn’t need to look to see the hard line of his mouth, set like it always was when the doctor was disappointed. “I would apologise, but seeing as you broke into my flat, I think the least you could do is be clean while you’re here, hm?”

  
Sherlock let out an even breath and gave a slight nod, not quite knowing why he’d expected anything different. “I understand completely. Had I been even half lucid last night, I would have disposed of what I had left myself before coming here. Even I know bringing illegal substances into someone else’s home is frowned upon. And I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble,” he said, looking back up at John. “That being said, this does mean that I’ll be out of your hair sooner.”

  
“How do you figure?” John asked, arms crossing over his chest, one hip cocked against the edge of the table.

  
“John,” Sherlock looked at the doctor as if he’d grown a pair of extra arms, “any other day, I’d be more than happy to overstay my welcome, but, seeing as I’m likely to be experiencing withdrawal symptoms rather soon, I- I’d rather not subject you to that.”

  
John took a breath. “Hm. So, this drug you were given last night was something you’ve not taken before. Correct?”

  
Sherlock nodded cautiously. “Correct. To my knowledge, anyway. I’d reckon it was probably a dextromethorphan-something… Victor has a fondness for the dissociative. So, perhaps that mixed with something amphet-based. Or coke,” he said with a shrug. “Certainly something I’ve never tried. Whatever it is,” the young detective sighed, pushing a hand through his riotous locks as he valiantly fought the urge to tremble, “it’s got a horrendously short half-life.” He could tell he was already on the cusp of tumbling into what would likely be a miserable come-down period.

  
“Jesus.” John scrubbed a hand over his face. “So, potential potent DXM-cocaine mix. Whatever it was, it was a shock to your system. You don’t remember most of last night, you wound up in my flat, you’ve no idea how the crash is going to be with this -- And you think I’m going to just let you leave and go home where I can’t watch over you?”

  
Sherlock blinked up at John, his lips parting in silent surprise before he found his words again. “I- can’t stay here,” he said at last.

  
“Why can’t you?” John challenged simply.

  
Sherlock floundered as he tried to come up with an answer to a seemingly simple question. “I- you- th- there’s only one bed,” he managed finally, because that was the most obvious problem, and he looked between said bed and its owner, who shrugged.

  
“I did just fine at the desk last night. And I’ve slept on far worse than a hardwood floor; I think I can handle sleeping rough for a night or two more."

  
Baffled, Sherlock’s cheeks heated up, and he tried to convince himself that it was from the beginnings of withdrawal rather than anticipation at the implication of staying here for another night - or two. “But- you have work.” Surely that was a valid reason.

  
John’s smile was infuriating. “I actually have tomorrow off. And I’ll email my patients. Sometimes therapists have emergencies, too. There are other therapists, and I can do make-up appointments; or even Skype calls. Don’t worry about my schedule. That’s for me to fret over.”

  
“Clothes,” Sherlock tried, the retort a beat too quick, “I don’t have any clothes.”

“What, you’ve a problem with mine?” John asked, his wounded tone and expression clearly a front.

  
Sherlock just narrowed his eyes at the other man, his cheeks resolutely retaining their uncomfortable warmth.

  
John’s expression dissolved into a playful smirk. “Mm, I’ll take the silence to mean you’ve run out of arguments. Let me know when you come up with more, and I’ll refute them,” he said, and winked, which was _wholly_ unnecessary, in Sherlock’s opinion. “I’m a doctor, Sherlock,” the man added, his tone taking on an edge that was a little more serious. “I’m not going to let my patient go out and try to care for himself when neither of us know what’s going to happen. That’s not how I do things. Unfortunately for you, you’ve crossed paths with a doctor who cares a bit too much.”

  
Sherlock gave a soft ‘humph’ of a sound and turned back towards the table to bury his head in his arms defiantly, if only to hide his reddened cheeks from the infuriatingly genuine and caring man who seemed to be the cause of the inflammation. He was met with a soft chuckle a moment before he felt John’s hand came to rest on his shoulder in a gentle, comforting grip that lasted a second too long before the hand slid away.

  
“So you’re going to force me through detox?” Sherlock inquired at length, his voice an unenthused drawl that was muffled by his arms as he listened to John’s footsteps retreating into the main room.

  
“Well,” John began, “I can’t _force_ you through anything. Not legally.” Sherlock tracked the man’s movements across the room behind him from the desk, to the bed, and to the desk again, by the sound of his voice and footfalls. “And by that token-” his footsteps stopped, and Sherlock could tell John had turned and was facing him again “-I can’t force you to stay here.” John was clearly attempting valiantly to hide what resignation he felt in admitting that fact. “If- if you really don’t want to stay here, then you can of course leave. I mean, I really don’t want you on your own right now, but… it’s ultimately your choice.”

  
Sherlock waited, listening to the soft, anxious shifting of feet behind him for a few moments before taking an audible breath and raising his head, pivoting in his chair to peek over the back at John, who was standing in the centre of the main room, looking apprehensive behind a frail mask of indifference. After searching the doctor’s tight posture a few moments longer, Sherlock decided to have pity on the man and set his mind at ease. “I’ll stay,” he murmured, much to John’s delighted surprise, if the beaming smile that slowly stretched his lips was any indication.

  
“Will you?” John’s voice was nearly trembling with barely-restrained, cautious excitement.

  
Sherlock nodded his head once in affirmation. “I will.” The verbal confirmation made John’s entire body relax with relief, every ounce of tension seemingly melting away before Sherlock’s eyes. The detective wondered at just how much his own safety and well-being meant to the man before him.

  
The two men looked at each other, Sherlock’s face a careful visage of insouciance while John’s radiated with unbridled relief and satisfaction, the smile on his face bordering on a sort of fond that made something under Sherlock’s skin prickle in a way that wasn’t unpleasant at all.

  
Desperate to break the tension that had settled heavy and tangible in the air surrounding them, Sherlock cleared his throat and averted his eyes to glance nonchalantly at a blank wall. “I might as well stay here,” he said, doing his best to sound aloof. “Your flat is far more comfortable than mine, anyway. Proper heating.” He chanced a glance at John to find the man grinning, arms coming up to cross loosely over his chest.

  
“Oh?” the doctor inquired as he ambled closer to lean in the archway connecting the kitchen and the main room, and he snorted a laugh. “If you wanted to stay somewhere with proper heating, you could have just asked; didn’t have to go to the trouble of nearly overdosing to get me to offer up my bed.” The doctor’s smile faltered a touch, and Sherlock had a feeling the man had let slip a touch more than he’d intended.

  
“Ah, good to know,” Sherlock followed up smoothly; and he didn’t know whose benefit it was for, the fact that he chose not to linger on John’s previous statement. “I’ll keep it in mind when winter rolls around and I’m in danger of getting frostbite in my own home.” The quip brought John’s smile back, and Sherlock found his own lips twitching up at the corners at the sight of it.

John hummed a laugh and shook his head as he pushed away from the wall and made his way back over to the sink, turning the tap on and rolling up his sleeves to resume the washing of the dishes. “I’d say my door’s always open, but I’ve taken the liberty of removing the spare from under the mat permanently,” he said, and Sherlock’s smile grew.

  
“Not a problem,” he chirped, “I’m adept with a lockpick.”

  
“Course you are,” John murmured, and Sherlock could almost hear the rolling of his eyes and the quirk of a smile on his lips.

  
The pair fell silent after that, both of them smiling to themselves; John busying himself with finishing up the washing, and Sherlock occupying himself quietly by tracing the shapes in the stained grain of the kitchen table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll risk the repetitiveness to say thank you again so much for reading. You're all fantastic. Thank you thank you thank you for sticking with me. I am so incredibly sorry for the brief hiatus, but I'm glad to be back.
> 
> Updates soon! <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday!

“Twenty-eight.”

“Hmm?”

“You are twenty-eight years of age.”

John’s brow furrowed as he looked up from where he sat at his desk, eyes trailing across the small bedroom to where Sherlock sat, cross-legged, on the bed, his posture rigid, eyes sharp, and tone clipped. “Twenty-nine,” the doctor corrected, brow creasing further with confusion. “Why-”

“Younger than thirty years old,” Sherlock dismissed with an irritated flick of one wrist in the air, “and yet you are apparently less adept at using technology than my _grandfather_ ; who, mind you, is dead and buried.”

Taken aback by the blatant irritation in the detective’s tone, the doctor blinked at Sherlock and then looked cautiously to where his own hands were hovering tentatively over the keyboard of his laptop, his index fingers outstretched from his balled-up hands where they had been searching out and clicking keys individually, one-by-one, as they were found. “I’m… sorry?” he ventured, chancing a glance back across the room to find Sherlock rolling his eyes and huffing to himself. John sighed and pushed his chair away from his desk, abandoning the emails he’d been dutifully composing to patients and colleagues in favour of hopefully placating his guest. “Look,” he addressed, “I know you’re getting pissy because your withdrawal symptoms are starting to catch up to you, so I’m going to try not to take anything you say too personally.”

Sherlock just huffed again and crossed his thin arms over his chest, and appeared to try and lean even further back into the wall his back was against. John likened him to a stroppy teenager who’d had his mobile privileges revoked.

The morning had been pleasant. After they’d reached the agreement that Sherlock would be staying at John’s flat for the duration of his detox in an effort to get him clean in a safe manner while still keeping Sherlock relatively comfortable and _not_ in an institution, they’d fallen into an easy rhythm of coexistence; moving around one another, engaging in easy small-talk, before retreating to their opposite sides of the room to take care of personal business; Sherlock buried in his mobile, John immersed in his laptop.

But the afternoon had brought with it more rain outside, and a storm cloud inside that loomed, unseen and menacing, over Sherlock’s curly head. Withdrawal symptoms were steadily beginning to show themselves as Sherlock’s temper shortened like a lit fuse, and while John had known this was what he was getting himself into when he’d offered to let Sherlock stay, he was already dreading what the coming hours and days would bring.

“I know asking you to behave yourself is a tall order,” John tried quipping, though he was met with another eye-roll, “but I think we’ll both enjoy ourselves a bit more if we both keep a level head, hm?”

“I can’t just _sit_ here and do _nothing_ ,” Sherlock griped, his arms flailing wildly out to his sides in an exaggerated display. “I’ll _rot._ ” His head tipped back to clunk against the plaster wall behind him and he let out a pathetic whimper.

John, feeling the fool for not recognising the source of Sherlock’s distress sooner, turned and shuffled his feet to scoot his wheeled desk chair across the room to settle before the bed. “Hey,” he said quietly, one hand reaching out without hesitation to place on Sherlock’s leg. He could feel the man subtly trembling. “Do you want me to go and fetch some things from your flat for you? A laptop, a charger for your mobile, a book?” He realised belatedly that he should have offered far sooner.

The look on Sherlock’s face was one of guarded relief as he looked hesitantly down at him. “You don’t have to do that,” he mumbled, his fingers twitching against the fabric of the duvet he sat atop of.

John just smiled. “I reckon I have to if I don’t want you to be miserable.” Relieved at the incredibly small smile he was rewarded with, the doctor gave Sherlock’s leg a gentle squeeze. “Give me your address and a key, and I’ll run and get your stuff; I have to get bread from the shops anyway.”

Sherlock seemed to search John’s face curiously for a few moments before relenting. “7D Montague,” he said at length, and sat forward a bit from the wall, body gravitating just a touch closer to John’s as he spoke. John kept carefully still. “My laptop is on my desk, plugged in. My mobile charger is by the bed. Don’t mind the mess,” he added, “and my keys were in my coat.”

“7D Montague,” John repeated with a nod and a small smile, before standing up, his chair pushing out a short distance behind him. Before he stepped away, however, an urge too strong to deny overcame him and he found his hand moving before he gave it permission, to reach up to Sherlock’s forehead, brushing aside his dark fringe and, just like earlier, pressing the flat of his hand against the younger man’s skin. And again, just as before, he watched Sherlock’s eyes close in something akin to bliss, heard the soft exhale, and felt the man push into the contact. The skin was warm to the touch, but not concerningly so; it was expected that the man would run a bit of a fever, but hopefully he wouldn’t get much warmer than he currently was.

“I’ll be back,” John said, voice a touch too quiet, and he heard Sherlock hum in response, before he pulled his hand away. Eyes that were glassy with fatigue blinked open to look up at him, and John, desperate to break the silence that was loaded with some unspeakable tension, kept talking. “There’s stuff in the fridge. Help yourself to whatever you need in the flat… Is there anything in particular you’d like while I’m out?”

After taking a moment to think, Sherlock hummed again. “Jaffa Cakes?” he inquired, and John’s chest swelled impossibly with fondness, because a grown man, ruffled with fatigue and pink with mild fever, was sat on his bed requesting chocolate-covered biscuits.

“Of course,” John said, not bothering to hide the fondness in his voice, and he reached out once more to gently push his fingers through the young detective’s curls before stepping away.

He was already dressed for the day, in a dark green jumper and his jeans, so it only took a minute more to get ready. He slipped on his trainers and watch before taking his jacket (now thankfully dry) from its place on the hooks by the door alongside Sherlock’s. Before he opened his door, he fingered Sherlock’s coat pockets for a set of keys, which he found with little effort, and put them in his jacket pocket to join his own. After one last check to be sure he had his wallet and mobile, he opened the door to his flat and turned the lock on the inside. “Alright, I’ll be back,” he called behind him. “Call me if you need anything, yeah?”

“I will,” came a soft voice in response, followed by an unexpected, “thank you.”

John bit his lip to keep himself from chatting and lingering in the doorway any longer, and edged the rest of the way out the door, before letting it close with a soft ‘click’ behind him. One final check to be certain the door was locked, and he was off, making his way down the dimly-lit hallway, down the stairs, and out the front door of his building.

Thankfully, the rain had let up - if only a touch - since he’d last been outside, and John was able to stick close to the sides of the buildings as he made his way down the pavement to avoid the worst of the downpour. As he hunkered down in his jacket, chin tucked into the neckline and hands buried deep in his pockets, he let his mind wander on the subject of Sherlock.

Sherlock, his patient. His patient who was taking up temporary residence in his home.

John thought as objectively as possible about a hypothetical scenario where any of his other patients had somehow wound up in his flat in Sherlock’s place. Frustratingly enough, in every other made-up scenario, John saw himself turning his patients away; or, at the very least, phoning the authorities, or someone better equipped to handle people who potentially posed a very real threat to themselves. In none of the posed hypothetical instances did John see himself dressing a patient in his own clothes and burying his fingers in their hair. His fingers twitched around two sets of keys in one pocket as he remembered the phantom sensation of soft, thick curls.

The doctor set his jaw and clenched his teeth together, a huff of breath leaving him agitatedly as he frowned heavily against his own frustration; a frustration that he recognised all too well as the sort that stemmed from internal conflict. And John knew himself well enough to know just what was causing him his anguish.

Unfortunately, while his brain was perfectly aware that Sherlock was his _patient_ , that Sherlock came to him for professional _help_ , that he was supposed to be helping the other man get clean and remove him from the path of self-destruction, none of that stopped his heart from stumbling its way through some sloppy semblance of rhythm at the thought of the young genius currently in his flat.

John had known from very early on that Sherlock was physically and mentally attractive. However, there was a difference between finding someone aesthetically pleasing and intellectually stimulating, and _being attracted to them._ And while he was usually good at keeping himself from crossing that line, he knew that he’d been in danger of crossing that line with Sherlock for quite a while.

Could he really be blamed, though? Compared to the years he’d spent in the armed forces and his life prior, the last year of his life had been a miserable and monotonous experience; he had observed the world blurring around him in pallid tones of murky slate while he limped through his own pathetic shell of a life, trying and failing to find a true purpose. Being a practitioner helped in some ways, but he still felt like he was living in monochrome. And then came Sherlock; an enigmatic and youthful man whose mere existence demanded the attention of those around him. He was an invasive force, burrowing his way into John’s mind and heart and carving out a place just for himself. He made John’s mind whir and his heart pound in a way he hadn’t known since he was wielding a gun in a desert, and this time around there was much less fear and much more excitement.

The way Sherlock made him feel - like there was something to live for - wasn’t the only thing that brought John dangerously close to crossing professional boundaries; the man himself was blindingly brilliant. Endlessly charming. Unpredictable, filled with a sass and wit John had never had the pleasure of encountering in another human being, and by _God_ , was he gorgeous. John felt his cheeks colour as he allowed himself for the first time to _really_ think about it. Sherlock was a bit of an unconventional sort of attractive, in John’s mind; tall and lithe, if a bit too thin for John’s comfort, though he was only concerned for the man’s health. His skin was flawless and stunningly pale to the point where John almost suspected a potential vitamin deficiency. His striking features looked downright lethal in their sharpness, with high, prominent cheekbones and captivating, sharp, verdigris eyes resting above them. His features were framed perfectly by messy, raven locks that John had previously, secretly, _longed_ to touch-- and now he had. And the urge still wasn’t satisfied.

John was endlessly thankful for the chill in the air, because it meant he could blame the flush in his cheeks on the cold. He took a moment away from his musings however to focus his efforts into hailing a cab now that he’d reached the main road, which, thankfully, didn’t take terribly long. It seemed to John, as he entered the back seat of the taxi that pulled up to the kerb with a huff of exertion, the rain which had scared most sane people inside the day prior had kept them inside.

“Seven Montague Street,” he told the cab driver, who nodded and pulled away from the kerb the moment John shut the door.

The sights out the window were even more bleak than they usually were, London’s typical dreary grey made ever the more gloomy by the rain, though it didn’t dampen John’s mood. He shivered slightly in the back seat of the taxi as the chill seeped into his bones and made itself more known now that he was no longer in the rain, but he was comforted by the knowledge that he’d soon be in the company of Sherlock once again.

The traffic was blissfully light for the hour, and John was soon dropped in front of a neat little row of flats near the British Museum. _Not a bad part of town at all_ , he thought to himself as he handed the cabbie a handful of pounds and exited the car. The rain greeted him again and John cursed lightly to himself as he shut the taxi door and jogged across the pavement to a door with the number seven marked on the front in chipped chrome markings, and he dug the unfamiliar set of keys out of his pocket. Thankfully, the front door to the building was unlocked, and he let himself into a dimly-lit foyer with a set of stairs to the right and a hallway to the left. Figuring 7D was upstairs, John plodded his way up the staircase to the upper floor, where doors to 7C and 7D greeted him. He was able to find the correct key to Sherlock’s door on the first try, and he was thankful for it, because he wasn’t sure how he’d react if another tenant from the building witnessed him entering Sherlock’s flat. But he got through the door without incident, let it close behind him with a gentle ‘thud,’ and felt around on the wall next to him for a light switch.

His wandering fingers found their mark and a dim, exposed light bulb flickered on overhead, illuminating the small foyer. On the wall adjacent to the door was a series of hooks, each adorned with a jacket or coat or scarf or bag, and it appeared Sherlock had run out of hooks because a few jackets and bags had found a place scattered on the floor in amidst several discarded pairs of shoes and boots. John sidestepped the small pile of garments and headed into the small kitchen, and he had to hold back a groan when he turned on the light. The detritus that was scattered on the kitchen table and over parts of the countertops painted a picture of very recent recreational drug-usage; several syringes were strewn about, small bags that clearly used to contain white, powdery substances, and a dirty metal dish over a Bunsen burner that John didn’t have to be a man of science to know _wasn’t_ for your average everyday chemical experimentation. An overly-full ashtray sat in the middle of the table, with an opened and partial pack of Lambert and Butler cigarettes sitting primly on its end next to it, along with a lighter.

Before John realised what he was doing, he found himself reaching for a syringe and snapping the needle off of the end, and then reaching for another and giving it the same treatment, before tossing them into the rubbish bin by the sink. In his mind, he justified his actions by telling himself it wouldn’t do Sherlock any good to work with him through his detox, only to put him back in an environment with drug paraphernalia strewn about and easily accessed. After a few minutes, a neat accumulation of needles and syringes and plastic baggies had found their way into the bin, and John sighed tiredly to himself as he made his way into the small, adjoining bedroom.

What he thought was a very nice flat on the outside turned out to be a rather run-down, shabby place on the inside. The carpet was thin, the rooms were cold, the lighting consisted of bare, exposed bulbs, and while he was sure some of the shoddy decor could be blamed on Sherlock, John couldn’t see this place looking terribly nice in any scenario without some significant renovations. Aside from the decor, Sherlock clearly hadn’t been a martyr blowing a mildly-untidy room out of proportion; the place was a disaster. Clothes littered the floor, newspapers and books took up nearly every surface in the room, and dirty mugs with dried-up tea bags still in them took up what little space was left. Another overflowing ashtray sat on a small table by the window, and underneath the windowsill, on a small floor stand, was a violin. John raised his eyebrows at the sight, because the instrument looked well cared-for; the strings were in-tact, the instrument was polished, with a light dusting of rosin powder on the strings, the wood beneath, and the widest part of the fingerboard to indicate recent use. He didn’t have to try very hard to imagine Sherlock wielding such a delicate instrument; the man likely took to music with the same nearly-frightening precision with which he approached a crime scene. John wondered what haunting melodies nimble fingers had manipulated out of the fine instrument, and decided he’d ask Sherlock about the hobby when next they spoke.

The one wall in the room that was bare of furnishings was covered, in its entirety, with newspaper clippings, photographs, pieces of paper, and sticky-notes, each stuck to the wall with pins, which had red string connecting them all in a massive series of webs. Expansive and intricate, it was truly a sight to behold - and if John didn’t know Sherlock any better, he’d assume the man was a conspiracy-theory nutter. But a closer look at the papers and photographs revealed clippings from articles detailing the case with Blessington, and the recent robberies that Sherlock had seemed to think were gang-related. Some of the photographs were of Blessington himself, while others contained shifty-looking characters whom John didn’t recognise. One photo which caught the doctor’s eye was of a dingy brick wall with the word “Worthington” spray-painted in large, green, bold-faced font with a thick black outline and white, artistic highlights. Similar photos - which John, after a moment, realised looked very similar to gang-related graffiti tags - were placed in seemingly-strategic places on the wall, connected to each other via the red string.

John let out a breath and turned away from the wall-cum-evidence-board to grab Sherlock’s laptop off of the desk that sat against the adjacent wall. He unplugged the charger from the wall as well to take it with him as he moved towards the unmade bed in the corner of the room. He had to step over a few miscellaneous piles of clothes and books and papers on his way, and he huffed as he set the laptop and cord down on the bed. Christ, Sherlock cut such a tidy figure; John hadn’t expected for him to keep such chaotic rooms. Nevertheless, he knew not everyone was as anal about organisation as he was. At least, John thought, it appeared Sherlock did keep his _clean_ clothes tucked away in his armoire, which stood out from the wall near the foot of the bed. He pulled open the closet doors to find a neat row of sleek blazers ranging in colour from black, to navy, to varying shades of grey. Beside them were hung several primly-pressed dress shirts, in an array of colours, and John didn’t have to look at the tag in the back of the crisp collars to know that they were designer, and likely cost more than his rent. A row of trousers to match the blazers came after that, and while John could guess at just how fond Sherlock was of his custom-tailored suits, he figured the man wouldn’t fancy them for lounging in.

So he pulled open the topmost drawer in the chest of drawers beneath the hanging portion of the closet. And he paused, a frown on his face. Because while he himself was an organised man, and he liked to keep his things in order, he had never once considered arranging his socks in the way presented before him now. A confused and amused smile grew on his face as he looked at the neatly-situated socks, folded together in their pairs, arranged according to gradient, and he shook his head with an awed sort of chuckle as he took a couple pairs from the last column - all white - and tossed them over onto the bed with the laptop. He made quick work of gathering a few pairs of pants from a couple different piles. In doing so, his hand grasped a wad of fabric near the back of the drawer, but he was met with a mild resistance when he tugged, and when he pulled the garment free, he heard the soft ‘clunk’ of a solid object against the wooden bottom of the drawer. John blinked and wet his lips and, perhaps despite his better judgement, reached back with his free hand, both to sate his curiosity and to put the upset object back where it’d been, but he stuttered to a halt when his wandering fingers wrapped around something cylindrical and solid.

“Oh, Christ,” he murmured, because of all the solid, smooth, cylindrical things to find in the back of a man’s pants drawer - or anyone’s pants drawer, for that matter - well, he had a pretty good idea of what it probably was. It certainly wasn’t a gun, anyway. So when he withdrew his hand and a sleek, black, silicon rod that measured a suggestive and salacious eight inches in length and a good four inches around came into view, he really shouldn’t have been surprised. “Fuck’s sake,” he groaned, feeling blood rush rapidly to his face, and he hastily put the decidedly _phallic_ object back in the back of the drawer, and quickly tossed the pants he’d collected onto the bed to join the socks and laptop.

He grit his teeth as he shut the drawer with a little more force than necessary, because with the subject of his and Sherlock’s relationship still on his mind from his ruminating on the way to the flat, the last thing he needed was to stumble across a fucking- God, a bloody _sex toy._ Especially the sort of toy that made it _very_ clear just what Sherlock was interested in. “Get ahold of yourself,” he grumbled, “you’re a _doctor_ , you’re a _grown man_ ,” he continued, punctuating each noun with a movement of his hand, opening the bottom drawer and grabbing at a pair of grey lounge trousers inside. His hands fisted the drawer to randomly grab at a few soft-looking tee-shirts and another pair of trousers, and he tossed them haphazardly onto the bed to join the other clothes. Satisfied he’d gathered enough for a couple days, John slammed the drawer and grabbed a small duffel bag that was sticking out from under the bed, and began shoving Sherlock’s belongings inside. What he assumed to be the charger for Sherlock’s mobile was on the small table beside the bed, and he swiped it off the surface and into the duffel. As an afterthought, he made a quick trip to the bathroom to grab a toothbrush he found next to the sink, as well as a razor, before returning to the bedroom.

He added the toiletries to the bag and zipped the duffel closed, before shouldering it with a grunt. Thankfully, it was small enough to likely not be a nuisance once he got to Tesco. Bag packed and mind relatively distracted from the subject of the contents of Sherlock’s pants drawer, John made his way back through the labyrinth of dirty clothes and scattered books and papers to the kitchen, where, begrudgingly, he snatched the near-empty pack of cigarettes and the lighter off of the table. Because if he was going to make Sherlock suffer through withdrawal, he’d give the man a brief respite. And who could say, maybe John would end up needing them just as much at some point.

A glance at his watch told John he’d been at Sherlock’s flat for only about ten minutes. He felt comfortable leaving Sherlock at his flat alone for probably another fifteen. The man had been shaking subtly before John left, and he knew as well as anyone how unpredictable withdrawal symptoms could be. So he patted down his pockets to be sure he had both his and Sherlock’s sets of keys before seeing himself out, shutting the lights off on his way, and locking the door behind him.

The trip out of the flat was as uneventful as the trip into it had been, for which John was thankful yet again. And thanks to his proximity to the British Museum, there was an abundance of cabs to be caught, even in the rain. A ride to the nearest Tesco cost only four minutes and a couple quid, and once inside, John grabbed a basket and made a beeline for the biscuits. Two packets of Jaffa Cakes and a pack of Cadbury Fingers found their way into John’s basket, hopefully enough to satisfy Sherlock’s apparent chocolate cravings, along with a small jar of preserves to feed John’s jam obsession and the loaf of bread he’d come to the store for the day prior. A few single-serving pots of yoghurt in various flavours were added to the basket, because apparently Sherlock liked yoghurt, and John was, naturally, eager to please. Once satisfied he’d acquired enough consumables, he made his way to the queue, and on any other day he’d try very hard to chat up the young girl behind the cash drawer with the curly blonde hair and the peach-painted lips and the low-cut top, but today, he looked past her to the shelf with the tobacco products.

“I’ll have a pack of L&Bs, please,” he said, and gave a small nod of thanks to the girl when she rung them up and handed them over. He put them in his pocket alongside the pack he’d taken from Sherlock’s flat, and hoped that this pack, along with Sherlock’s partial one, would suffice. His purchases were scanned and bagged in short order, and he paid with his card, trying not to wince at the inevitable blow to his bank account, and gave the cashier a polite smile while he gathered his bags and saw himself out.

John wondered just how much longer it was going to rain; the deluge had returned full-force, making it difficult for John to even see the bloody street, let alone the cabs that were inching their way through the storm. Nevertheless, he struggled his way to the kerb and, holding both grocery bags in one hand, raised his other hand, duffle bag perched precariously on his shoulder, to flag down a cab.

The black car that pulled up almost immediately had John sighing in grateful relief, and he tugged open the back door and nearly collapsed inside, bags falling clumsily at his feet as he struggled to shut the door behind him. Already breathless and soaking, John let his eyes close and his head tip back against his headrest as he allowed himself to catch his breath. The cab driver would be needing his address, though, he reminded himself, and he opened his eyes and his mouth to give the information to the cabbie, but his words died in his mouth as he looked around the sleek interior of the car. It was spacious; far more spacious than an average taxi cab from his experience, with dark burgundy carpet lining the floor and what looked to be premium leather on the seats. He half expected to see a minibar when he turned his head, but instead, when he looked to his side, he found himself looking at the profile of a young and very attractive woman, her long dark hair untouched by the rain, her attention on a mobile device in her hands, which her thumbs were tapping away at.

“Oh, damn, I’m so sorry,” he began, already reaching for the door handle, because _clearly_ he had mistakenly stumbled into somebody’s fucking _Jaguar_ who’d pulled up to the kerb, probably _waiting for someone_ -

“Don’t fret, Dr. Watson,” the woman’s voice came out in a smooth drawl, and John did a double-take. “You’re right where you need to be.”

John’s heart leapt into his throat, though he was careful not to show his disquiet as he felt the car pull smoothly away from the kerb and into traffic. He glanced to the door he’d come in and knew it would be locked without him having to try to open in, and he pursed his lips as he looked out of the tinted window.

“Right,” he said at length. “Do you, um… mind telling me what this is, then?” he dared to inquire, looking back at the girl, who had yet to look up from her phone.

“I’m being paid to mind,” she returned easily with a smile that didn’t reach what John could see of her chocolate brown eyes, and John gave a small nod and a sigh through his nose in response.

“Okay.” He tried his best to relax in his seat without letting his guard down; this was the second time in as many days that John had been without his gun in a situation that bloody well merited his having a fucking gun. He made a silent pact with himself to carry it with him from this point out, always. Not that it’d help him now, he thought dismally as the car rounded a corner onto a less-populated road. A few minutes of tapping his foot and monitoring his own breathing went by before he decided to fill the silence with something other than the woman’s fingernails tapping at her phone screen, and the rain tapping at their windows. “So,” he tried, “what’s your name?”

“Mmm,” the woman seemed to think for a moment, “ah… Anthea.”

“Anthea,” John repeated skeptically. “Is that your real name?”

“Mm, no,” _‘Anthea’_ replied, the smile that stretched her lips almost sinister in its amusement.

“Brilliant,” John murmured, feeling more annoyed than threatened by this point, and decided to stay quiet for the rest of this little excursion.

Several long minutes later and John saw lights up ahead through the thick curtain of rain, and suddenly, the sounds of the rain hitting the car were stopped. Which meant they were under shelter.

“He’ll see you out there,” _‘Anthea’_ piped up as the car pulled to a halt, not removing her eyes from her phone.

“Sorry, who?” John asked, peering out of his window, which didn’t reveal much considering it was tinted and also covered in water droplets.

“Best not keep him waiting,” she deflected, and fell silent, and John huffed an aggravated breath _just_ to let her know how impossibly infuriating she was being, and grumbled to himself as he shoved the door open and got out of the car with as much grace as he could muster.

A look around revealed that he was in some sort of warehouse. Lit enough for John to be certain there wasn’t anything threatening lurking in the shadows. A potential exit behind him from where the car had pulled in; the large door hadn’t been closed, and the rain that fell steadily outside was daunting, but he’d rather face that than die in this fucking place. The only other door was a regular-sized one that was in front of him, but was blocked by a lone figure, standing casually with one foot crossed over the other, weight distributed between his feet and the umbrella propped on the floor beside him. After taking a fortifying breath, John dared to approach.

“You know,” he began, “any other day, I’d love to be absconded with. But I’ve got cold groceries that need to be put in my fridge,” he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder back towards the car with a look of feigned apology on his face. “So whatever this is, let’s make it quick, shall we?”

He came to a stop in front of the nameless man leaning on his brolly; an irritated John Watson would have pinned the bloke a chav, but in actuality the man was nicely put-together, in a clearly designer, probably bespoke, pinstripe, brown suit with the chain of a pocket-watch visible hanging out of one pocket. The gleam of a gold ring on his left hand drew John’s attention as the man shifted where he stood. His brown hair was trimmed short enough to make the man look older than he likely was, and John could see the through the blasé expression on the man’s face, to the keen and sharp grey eyes that studied him in an eerily familiar way.

The man’s smile was one John would compare to something he’d seen on a shark. “Dr. John Watson,” he greeted smoothly, something in his tone making John’s spine stiffen. “I know the leg has been better for you as of late, but we both know what the cold and the damp does for both your leg and shoulder. Please, take a seat,” he said, and motioned with his umbrella briefly to a chair that was sat a short distance away from John.

“I’m fine with standing, ta,” John said back, not even looking at the chair.

“Mm,” the man hummed, his eyes trailing unabashedly over John’s figure, and John stood still under the scrutiny. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John rejoined smoothly.

The man gave an almost startled, if clearly amused, laugh. “Ah, yes; the bravery of the _soldier_ ,” he said, and John’s eyes narrowed at the almost-mocking tone. “Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” he continued, which John didn’t deign with an answer. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

What? John’s brow furrowed at the non-sequitur. “I- don’t have one,” he said carefully.

A bored and knowing look overcame the other man’s face. “Unwise to lie here, John,” he said in a warning tone. “While I admire your commitment to the concept of doctor-patient confidentiality, you _are_ affiliated with him outside of your practise.”

“Alright,” John amended, “we’ve had tea. Other than that, I’ve known him… about a month. And spent less than a full day in his presence.”

“Such a small amount of time together,” the man said, nearly tutting as he did so, “and since then you’ve made an impact strong enough to at least get him to attempt getting clean. You’ve _had tea_ , you’re visiting murder scenes and solving crimes together, and now you’re having _sleepovers_ ,” he listed with blatant almost-disgust, and John’s jaw set defensively. “I expect we’ll be getting a _happy announcement_ in another month’s time?”

John could practically see the slitted serpent’s tongue slithering out of this git’s mouth. “Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock. What, are you a jealous ex-boyfriend?” John jabbed, though he felt it rather revealed a bit more than he’d intended for it to.

Thankfully, the only reaction it garnered was a look of revulsion and a small sound of distaste from the other. “Nothing of the sort.”

“What, then?” John prodded. “I’m assuming you two aren’t friends.”

A withering look was cast John’s way. “You’ve met him. How many _friends_ do you imagine he has?” The man lifted his umbrella off the floor to examine the end of it absently. “I’m the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

Something in John’s chest burned with righteous fury at the statement; and he wasn’t sure whether it was born of some sort of misplaced jealousy, or some equally misplaced fear. “And what’s that?”

“An enemy,” the man replied, all too quickly. To which John raised an eyebrow.

“An enemy,” he repeated skeptically.

“In his mind, certainly.” The man took an audible breath. “In fact, if you were to ask him, he’d likely call me his _arch_ -enemy.”

John huffed a small laugh. “Can’t imagine why. You two seem so similar; both with a flair for the dramatic,” he said, looking around at the desolate and deserted warehouse with an amused expression. He turned back to the other man and heaved a sigh. “Look, like I said, I’d love to stay here and chat with you, but really, I’ve got somewhere to be.”

The man ignored him. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock?”

“I could be wrong,” John began, “but I _think_ that’s none of your business.”

“It could be,” the other said, almost through gritted teeth.

“It _really_ couldn’t,” John nearly hissed back.

The other man took in a long sigh and shifted his weight on his feet. “Well, if you were to reconsider, I could supply you with a reasonable sum of money on a regular basis to help ease your way.”

John frowned. “What? Why?”

“Well, because you’re not well-off-”

" _In exchange for what?"_  John clarified, now irritated.

A beat of silence passed before the other man smiled. “Information.” John’s frown deepened. “Nothing indiscreet,” the man continued, and John didn’t even have time to wonder just _what_ that implied, “nothing you wouldn’t be uncomfortable with sharing. Just… let me know how he’s doing. What he’s up to.”

“Why?” John asked plainly.

“I worry about him,” the man said, a tired look overtaking him. “Constantly.”

“Mm. That’s… nice of you,” John returned, doing his best not to let on just how fucking confused he was.

“But I would prefer, for reasons I’m sure are quite obvious, that my concern go unmentioned. Sherlock and I have… a difficult relationship,” the man with the umbrella finished with a sigh.

John looked up at the bare beams of the ceiling, and pursed his lips as if thinking, then gave a hum, before fixing the other bloke with a hard stare. “No.”

The other smiled, empty and cold. “But I’ve yet to mention a figure.”

“Don’t bother,” John shot back. “I’m not interested.”

“You’re very loyal, _very_ quickly,” the man said, an out-loud observation. “A soldier’s folly. Loyal and trusting to a fault.”

“Who says I trust him?” John asked, perhaps a little too quickly, feeling something in his chest tighten.

“You don’t seem to be the sort to make friends quickly-”

“-Are we done here?” John’s interruption made the other man look up, anticipation on his face, but his voice came out in a quiet drawl.

“You tell me.”

Absolutely fed up, John huffed and turned around, starting to march back to the car that brought him here, and he nearly growled when a voice sounded behind him.

“I’d warn you to stay away from him, but I can see by the state of your left hand that that’s not going to happen.”

 _Don’t do it, don’t take the bait._ Despite his better judgement, John stopped, and he fought with himself internally as he weighed his chances; if he didn’t play along, the man may very well pull a fucking sword out of his damned brolly and run him through. The bastard looked the sort to do it. After setting his jaw, John turned around. “What?” he asked, clearly irritated.

“Show me.” The taller man sauntered closer, hanging his umbrella over his arm in a practised motion as he reached out, and John, stifling a groan and resorting to just rolling his eyes, held out his left hand. The fingers that gently roamed over his skin, just barely touching him, were icy cold. “Remarkable,” the man said after a moment, sounding truly astounded.

“What is?” John asked, taking his hand back the moment it was released, and he watched as the other man turned to start ambling away again.

“Most people blunder around this city and all they see every day are shops, cars; but when you walk the streets with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.” He turned around again to face John, the smile on his face almost excited. “You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

John swallowed. “What’s wrong with my hand?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

“You’ve got an intermittent tremour in your left hand. You’ve been told by therapists that it’s caused by post-traumatic-stress-disorder. They think you’re haunted by the memories of your military service.”

“Who the hell are you?” John asked, and his voice sounded small even to his own ears. “And how the hell do you know that?”

“I certainly hope you’re not seeing those therapists any longer, and if you are, fire them,” the man continued, voice a bit softer now. “Because they’ve got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress this very moment, and your hand is perfectly steady.” His haunting smile widened into something that almost made John sick. “You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You _miss_ it.”

The pair looked at each other in silence for a beat, and the taller man’s smile was colder than the chill that had settled into John’s bones from his rain-wet clothes, and the whisper that followed was almost too quiet to be heard over the steady patter of the rain on the metal roof.

“Welcome back.”

John watched as the man turned away, flipping his umbrella merrily beside him as he retreated, his free hand tucked into his trouser pocket. The doctor let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and looked down at his left hand. The mysterious man’s words echoed in his skull, but it morphed into the sounds echoing around the warehouse, and he turned around to find the source - _‘Anthea’_ from the car was sauntering towards him, her obnoxiously high heels clacking against the smooth concrete floor and reverberating off of the metal walls to fill the space with sound.

“I’m to take you home,” she chimed,  _still_ tapping away at the phone in her hands. John turned around again to find the man gone, and licked his lips as he turned back to not-Anthea and the car.

Silently, he relented, and gave a sigh as he started towards the car, listening to the woman on her phone tailing after him in her heels. Once they were both in the car, the vehicle pulled back out of the warehouse and turned around to head back, presumably, into the city.

John spent the rest of the ride back to his flat thinking over the strange encounter with the man who was inexplicably concerned with Sherlock, while pretending not to be pleased that the impromptu meeting had taken long enough that the rain was finally starting to lighten up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I should mention, though I'm sure it goes without saying, that the addresses I have used thus far in the story are fictional. The Montague Street address is a nod to canon, and according to Google Maps, Montague Street is adjacent to the British Museum. 7 Montague is also a hotel or something. So yeah, it's all fake, it's all lies; it's all for the sake of the story. I figure it doesn't matter to most of you, but I thought I ought to mention it.
> 
> Sorry for shattering the illusion. ;)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and I'll see all of your shining, beautiful faces back here next Saturday!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some fluff.

The ride back to John’s flat was blissfully uneventful, and John spent the entirety of it stewing in his luxurious leather seat, his mood souring with each tap of  _ ‘Anthea’s _ neatly-polished thumbnails on the screen of her mobile; the sound of which, combined with the pitter-patter of the ever-present rain on the car, proved to be near-deafening in the otherwise silent back seat. John was sure his foot was about to go through the floor of the car, with how vigorously he was tapping the toes of his trainers in an effort to not go completely mad. He’d wished when he was younger that his life might be more reminiscent of a James Bond film; today he regretted ever wishing for such a thing. He’d been whisked away in an unmarked, black Jaguar with an unseen driver and a very attractive and mysterious woman dressed in black in the seat next to him. The unmarked black Jaguar had taken him to a deserted warehouse where he was told someone was waiting for him; some unnamed clot in a bloody perfect suit with a posh accent and probably a fucking sword inside his umbrella. He’d been questioned by the man whom he’d never seen before, and somehow the bastard knew  _ all _ about him -- and he had a concerning fixation on, specifically, John’s connection to Sherlock.

Why would the man be interested in Sherlock?

Well, to be fair, he could think of a long list of reasons why anyone would be interested in Sherlock; and among them were reasons that he himself was interested in Sherlock. But the tall bloke in the suit clearly had a different sort of interest than that which John was trying very hard to get over.

“Bye,” came a voice from beside him, snapping John out of his thoughts, and he looked to his side to see  _ ‘Anthea,’ _ looking rather annoyed with her chocolate-brown eyes on him instead of her mobile for the first time, and it was then that John realised that the car was stopped. He glanced out the window and was met with the sight of the front door of his building. 

“Oh. Bye,” he responded, sounding much more chipper than she had. He quickly situated the duffle from Sherlock’s over his good shoulder, grabbed both grocery sacks in one hand, and opened the car door with the other before sliding out of the back seat of the car. After shutting the door, he glanced back over his shoulder as the sleek black car pulled away from the kerb, a part of him wistful that his first and likely last time in a Jaguar had been so brief and lacking any sort of glamour that he imagined would typically come with, well, being in a Jaguar. Nevertheless, he was glad to be home; he had a patient to attend to, and he felt he’d kept Sherlock waiting long enough for his biscuits.

The front door of the building was unlocked, and John, thankfully, only had to endure a small bit of fumbling between his grocery bags, the duffel, and his keys as he made his way up the stairs to his own flat. He unlocked his door in a quick, practised motion, pushed through and over the threshold with a soft grunt of mild exertion, and huffed as he shut the door behind him with his foot before hobbling into the kitchen.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he began, depositing the grocery bags onto the kitchen table, beginning to pull the cold items out of their respective sacks to put into the fridge. “I was sort of kidnapped-” his amused tone paired with the light smirk on his lips both dropped when he glanced up to catch Sherlock’s eyes, only to find the other man nowhere to be seen. John frowned, two pots of yoghurt held aloft in his hands partway out of the grocery bags. “Sherlock?” he called cautiously, and it was then that he heard a distant retching sound coming from in the direction of the bathroom.

He cursed softly to himself as he hastily put down the yoghurt, before making his way to the bathroom, stripping his wet jacket off and tossing it haphazardly over the back of a kitchen chair along the way. Through the gap between the door of the bathroom and its frame spilled a sliver of light that signified the bathroom’s occupation, and John prefaced his arrival with another soft call of his guest’s name and a light rap of his knuckles on the door before pushing it open and taking in the sight before him:

Sherlock looked infinitely more miserable than he had when John had left earlier in the day; the circles around his eyes and bags underneath had grown incomprehensibly darker, the tone of his already-alabaster skin taking on an impossibly more pale, sickly, pallid hue. Bloodshot and glassy eyes glanced up at him from under a frayed curtain of messy, dark curls, and Sherlock’s cheeks puffed out in a laboured and steadying breath. The room smelled faintly of bile.

“Well, at least you made it to the toilet,” John said as he approached, immediately kneeling down to where Sherlock was sat, curled up on himself against the wall next to the toilet. One lanky arm was thrown round the porcelain bowl, either for stability or out of some deluded affection, but once Sherlock had his wits at least partially about him, he recoiled and pressed impossibly further back against the wall with what strength he had, turning his face pointedly aside and closing his eyes tightly shut.

“No, John, please-” he struggled, but was caught in the middle of his plea by a sudden wave of nausea; John could see it in the way his face turned from deathly pale to the subtlest shade of almost-green, and in the way the younger man’s body swayed where he sat, one hand unconsciously reaching towards the toilet bowl again.

“Shut it,” John chastised lightly, reaching out to try and peel Sherlock away from the wall, and it took little effort as Sherlock’s nausea got the best of him, causing the other to tip clumsily forward, the top of his sternum hitting the edge of the toilet just in time for another horrid retching sound to tear from Sherlock’s agape mouth. John just sighed slowly out of his nose and turned his head aside out of respect for what little privacy and dignity Sherlock could retain in a situation like this, and he just stared at the fabric of his old jumper on Sherlock’s back. He reached out and put one calloused hand against the thin fabric to stroke Sherlock’s back in a steady, slow, repetitive, and soothing motion. He could feel Sherlock trembling as he emptied what little he had in his stomach into the toilet. 

After several more gut-churning retches followed by a series of weak spits into the toilet, Sherlock slowly and shakily pushed himself more-or-less upright, still on his knees in front of the toilet, breathing shallowly, eyes closed, and John, acting on his doctor’s impulse, reached over to grab a few squares of toilet roll to wipe a small bit of clear, viscous liquid from the man’s mouth and chin. He tossed the soiled paper into the toilet as Sherlock, unexpectedly, collapsed back against him. He was shivering violently, and John, not having the heart to do much else, let his weight shift so he was sitting on his backside, and he wrapped one arm solidly around the man’s shoulders, the other going round his front just under his ribcage.

And so there they sat, John with his back braced against the outside of the bathtub, one leg (his bad leg) outstretched while the other was folded beneath him, and Sherlock with most of his back and one shoulder against John’s chest, head tucked under John’s chin, his body curled up on itself, silently letting his breathing slowly even out. They were both silent for a good long while, and John was almost afraid Sherlock had fallen asleep against him, until a soft groan emitted from down by his chest, followed by a series of raspy and tired words.

“You said you were kidnapped?” came the slurred and gravelly inquiry, and John quirked an eyebrow.

“You’ve just spent God knows how long trying to hack up your small intestine into my toilet, and you’re asking me about my excursion.” It was delivered as a skeptical statement rather than a question, as John looked down at the top of Sherlock’s curly head with amusement and adoration. 

“I’ve just spent the last twenty-three minutes trying to hack up my small intestine into your toilet with little success,” Sherlock quipped back dryly, “and I’m asking about your excursion in an attempt to distract myself from my dismal failure.” He swallowed so thickly that John could hear it. “Do keep up, Doctor,” came the weak voice again, and God, John was so enamoured. The man smelled like vomit and was likely dangerously close to throwing up on him and was still managing to be a total brat, and John was smitten.

John tipped his head back and looked up at the blank ceiling of the bathroom as he attempted to quell his broad grin. He heaved a sigh and shook his head at the florescent light bulb, bathing the room it a headache-inducing, white light. “I was absconded with, yes,” he began, because he could understand that Sherlock needed some distracting. “It was a friend of yours.”

“A friend?” John could almost assuredly hear the confused frown in Sherlock’s crackling voice.

“An enemy,” John ammended, to which he felt what little tension there had been in Sherlock’s shoulders dissipate as the man relaxed again.

“Oh.” That shouldn’t have sounded as blasé as it had. “Which one?”

John’s ridiculous smile returned and he moved the hand from around Sherlock’s shoulders to gently tangle his fingers in the man’s curls; and he wondered to himself how many times he’d be doing that over the days to come. Most likely as many as he could get away with. Sherlock certainly wasn’t fighting it. “Your  _ arch- _ enemy,” he elaborated, and he felt Sherlock’s hum through his fingers against the man’s scalp, as well as through his chest where Sherlock’s head was resting.

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” the younger man asked after a moment, and John stiffened, his hand freezing.

“Um… yes-”

“Did you take it?”

“Ah, no,” John began, but was cut off.

“Pity,” came a sigh from down below, and John felt Sherlock relax further into him. “We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.” 

John couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound low and warm, and he imagined Sherlock smiling against the fabric at the front of his jumper against his chest. His fingers resumed their toying with Sherlock’s curls, and since Sherlock didn’t outright protest it, John didn’t stop. “Alright,” he said finally, “I’ll just ring him up and tell him I’ve changed my mind about his offer, shall I?” he murmured with a grin.

“I’ve got his number, would you like to?” Sherlock mumbled in turn, casually as ever, and John frowned.

“What? So you know who it was?”

“Obviously,” the younger drawled, thoroughly bored and sounding half-asleep.

John was flabbergasted. “Who the hell was it??”

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met,” Sherlock said in a manner decidedly not fit for discussing a villainous character straight out of a Bond film.

A skeptical eyebrow raised, John looked down at the top of Sherlock’s head. “More dangerous than you?” he asked, which earned him a feeble huff of almost-laughter.

“Seven years my senior, with the entire government on his side; neither of which are terribly threatening, but he does have Mummy’s number and a penchant for tattling, so yes, he is infinitely more dangerous than I am.”

“Hold on.” John’s fingers tightened just the littlest bit in Sherlock’s hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to garner attention.  _ “Mummy? _ Who the bloody hell is  _ Mummy?” _

“Mother,” Sherlock drawled. “ _ Our _ mother. You’ve had the misfortune of crossing paths with my dear brother. My sincerest condolences,” he slurred tiredly.

“That- you- that was your  _ brother _ ?” John asked disbelievingly, and he only realised he’d raised his voice when Sherlock gave a groan of displeasure. “Sorry,” the doctor apologised, and resumed his ministrations with his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, which seemed to placate the man enough, if the contented sigh and the nestling in of Sherlock’s body to his own was anything to go by. “I- Jesus. I never would have guessed. Aside from the posh, public school prat routine and the Armani suits, you two are nothing alike. I mean, he’s so… so…-”

“-Fat?” Sherlock finished, and John could hear his smirk.

“Not what I was going to say, but sure, we’ll go with that.” The amused, albeit weak snort that emitted from Sherlock warmed John’s heart. “The bastard was nearly bursting out of his vest buttons,” he murmured, and he felt Sherlock’s trembling start back up again, except this time, it was from laughter. John smiled.

“Alright, do you think you’re done trying to turn your stomach inside-out?” he asked after Sherlock had calmed back down, which was met with a hum and a gentle nod. “Good,” John continued, “because I’m not young anymore and my leg is very loudly protesting this position.”

“You’re not that old,” Sherlock said, but he pushed himself carefully away from John and steadied himself where he sat on the floor with one hand reaching up to the sink, the other braced against the tile flooring. He swayed where he sat, and John put a hand against his chest. “Sit back against the tub or the sink or something,” he directed, “and I’ll help you up once I’m on my feet.”

Obediently, Sherlock swiveled slowly where he sat until his back was against the cabinet that made up the base of the sink, and he tipped his head back to rest against the surface of the cabinet door, eyes closing, while John did his best to get to his feet as quickly as he could without making a plethora of noises one might attribute to a sixty-year-old with severe rheumatoid arthritis. Once up and relatively stable on his feet, John leaned over to scoop a hand under each of Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock’s eyes opened drowsily at the contact and he reached up to wrap one quaking hand around one of John’s clothed forearms, the other grabbing weakly at a bicep, his feet scrambling against the tile beneath him to get a good foothold as John pursed his lips and lifted. Together they managed to get Sherlock to his feet without incident, though once up, the younger man was unsteady and leaned heavily against the doctor for support. John responded wordlessly by wrapping his arm solidly around Sherlock’s thin waist and leading him out of the bathroom.

The trip into the main room was a slow, arduous process, but soon enough the duo had made it out of the bathroom and over to the bed, where John deposited his guest with as much care as he could manage, lest he disturb Sherlock’s decidedly-delicate gastrointestinal system. With Sherlock settling carefully on his side on the bed, John reached around him to fuss with the duvet and the sheets, and only once Sherlock was satisfactorily covered up did John deem it okay to take a step back.

“Alright,” he announced with a slight huff, “I’m going to fetch you a bin, and some water. Would you like to try to choke down some biscuits or anything? Just to get something into your system?” he asked, and when the question was met with a groan of displeasure, the doctor’s face and tone grew a touch more stern. “Sherlock,” he addressed the other, who was steadily burrowing his face further and further under the duvet to escape the topic of food, “you need to eat something. Trust me, you’ll feel better after you do. Just some biscuits. Digestives. Or saltines. Some crisps. A piece of toast. Something mild, hm?”

The man buried in the duvet whimpered, but opened his eyes to peek over the edge of the blanket at John, and after a few moments, Sherlock gave a sigh of resentment. “Fine,” he grumbled quietly, and John smiled triumphantly.

“Good. Thank you.” He turned away from his patient, leaving the man to make unhappy noises to himself in his cocoon of blankets on the bed in favour of taking up putting the cold groceries into the refrigerator again. In short order, he had the cold things put away, the boxes of biscuits and other odds and ends put in their respective cupboards, and the new pack of cigarettes set aside on the table for later, and he set about making some toast. The new loaf of bread was broken into and a couple slices were put into the toaster oven, and John went into the fridge to get butter and jam; Sherlock could pick what he liked. “Do you want tea?” he asked as he set the toast fixings onto the counter and went to put the kettle on for himself. A sound in the negative emitted from the lump of sheets on his bed, and John bit his lips around a fond grin as he turned back to the stovetop, occupying his hands with the kettle.

A few short minutes of silence ensued, where John kept himself busy and quiet by getting the small bin from by his desk and a cup of water from the kitchen to set on the floor by the bed and the nightstand, respectively. He then nabbed a pair of long boxers and a tee-shirt from his closet and dipped into the bathroom to quickly change out of his rain-damp clothes. By the time he emerged and tossed his wet clothes into the small pile that had accumulated near the door of his and Sherlock’s things (he really needed to do laundry before the damp clothes attracted wildlife or fungal growth), he could hear the kettle just starting to faintly whistle. Before it could reach a full cry, he took it swiftly off the stove, his bare feet padding against the linoleum floor as he moved around the kitchen. He made quick work of fixing his own tea, and by the time the tea bag was steeping in the steaming water in his mug, the toaster had gone off and the smells of fresh toast and tea filled the small flat. 

“Butter or jam?” John called, looking over his shoulder to the heap of sheets on his bed, and got a dejected-sounding “jam” in response, so John descended upon the fridge, almost enthusiastic in his perusing of his collection of little jam jars. After a moment of deliberation, he swiped a pot of half-empty strawberry and rose petal jam (a rather extravagant birthday present given to him by a friend) from a shelf, fished a butter knife out of a drawer, and smeared the red, gelatinous substance sparingly over a piece of warm toast, the scraping sound of the silver on the hardened crust filling the silence and the aromatic scent of the jam mingling with the others in the air. A small plate of two pieces of toast smothered in rosy pink jam and cup of tea in his hands, John sauntered back into the main room and stood by the bed until Sherlock peeked over the edge of the duvet at him. Curious, tired eyes glanced at the plate in one hand, then at the steaming mug in the other, before shifting up to lock with John’s eyes. John smiled.

“You going to sit up, or do you plan on deliberately getting toast crumbs in my sheets?” he asked playfully, to which Sherlock didn’t verbally react - but he did make a valiant effort to sit up a bit, however much effort it apparently took; he was nearly panting by the time he was sat mostly-upright, his back against the wall at the head of the bed. John took it upon himself to perch carefully on the edge of the bed, and Sherlock, unexpectedly, scooted a bit to the side in order to make more room. John, taking the invitation for what it was, sat more solidly on the bed, offering a small smile of thanks to the other man before setting the small plate of toast and jam on the duvet. “I think you’ll like the jam,” he said, leaning over carefully to set his tea on the nightstand, “it’s one of my favourites. I only break it out for special occasions.”

“How interesting it is that coming home to a patient nearly unconscious on your bathroom floor calls for specialty preserves,” Sherlock drawled dryly, but he picked up a piece of the toast with thinly-veiled interest, his curiosity getting the better of him as a spot of the jam found its way onto his thumb. The younger man’s brow furrowed with mild annoyance and he inspected the offending red spot for a moment before sticking his thumb in his mouth. The soft hum that escaped him a moment later was clearly not planned, as Sherlock fell deathly silent and froze, thumb still half in his mouth, as he looked back at John. His thumb fell from his lips with a soft, wet ‘pop’ and he cleared his throat. “Pretty good,” he murmured, obviously not wanting to admit any sort of approval for one selection of John’s absurd collection of jams.

John beamed regardless. “Isn’t it?” he asked, and nabbed the other piece of toast. “Are you going to want both pieces?” he asked, as an afterthought.

Sherlock shook his head, nose scrunching in a way that John would call adorable. “Not likely. I’ll resort to Digestives or… or shortbread, if I feel that I need further nourishment.” He brought the toast closer to his lips, but stopped and hissed in through his teeth, his free hand moving to protectively cover his gut over the sheets when his stomach made a pitiful noise. “As it is, I’m not even sure I’ll finish this piece.”

Mouth already full of a large bite of jam-covered toast, John hummed and struggled to swallow quickly. “Just try to eat,” he urged gently once he’d swallowed his mouthful, “and if you can’t finish that, that’s fine. I’ll get you anything you need; anything you think you can choke down without pushing yourself too far. You just need something in your system.”

Sherlock took a fortifying breath and nodded subtly before taking the smallest bite imaginable from the corner of the toast. “Thank you,” he murmured around his miniscule mouthful, to which John gave a soft smile before taking another bite of his own food.

John didn’t even think to move away. Perfectly content, they were, with Sherlock situated mostly under the covers and John sitting on the edge of the bed, sharing toast. And tea, after a few minutes of silence had stretched between them, because Sherlock had reached a slightly-shaking hand out to grab the porcelain mug off of the nightstand before John could protest (not that he would anyway) and bring it to his lips. John had not-so-subtly watched Sherlock cup the mug delicately in both hands, having put his toast back down on the plate prior to retrieving the mug, pucker his lips gently and blow a soft, even stream of air over the surface of the brown liquid in the mug. Then he’d tipped it back to take a sip and that perfect Cupid’s bow of his top lip disappeared behind the rim of white ceramic. At that moment, the doctor happened to follow the line of Sherlock’s nose up to meet two verdigris eyes that were, for a moment, significantly clearer than they had been a mere minute prior. And they were staring at him.

They froze, John with his mouth partly-filled with jam-smothered toast, Sherlock with John’s tea mug tipped back against his mouth mid-sip, and John was transfixed. It wasn’t long before his mind started to wander; he thought first about how utterly beautiful Sherlock’s eyes were, like the colour of moss in the deepest, most mysterious parts of the forest where the sun didn’t reach; the deepest part of the densest forest that went untouched by mankind, that grew wild and untamed, which held so many secrets that no one had ever been worthy enough to discover. He thought next about how the colours of Sherlock’s eyes shifted, that they weren’t a solid colour, but were ever-changing, like a light filtering through a crystal prism. His next thought was that Sherlock had absurdly long and dark eyelashes, and that it would be utterly devastating in the best of ways if the man ever took to wearing mascara.

A slow blink of Sherlock’s eyelids brought John out of his reverie, and he himself took in a sharp breath before looking away. He felt his cheeks heating up and he cursed at himself before he glanced back to see Sherlock looking off to the side as well, and his cheeks were a shade similar to that of the jam covering their toast.

“I- sorry,” the detective stammered out, much to John’s surprise, seeing as  _ he _ was used to being the one who was always apologising for staring longingly at other people. What was Sherlock apologising for?

“What? No, it’s… it’s fine,” John said in a hasty and slightly confused rush. The look Sherlock gave him conveyed just about the same amount of confusion that John felt.

“What do you mean, it’s fine?” he asked cautiously, his expression evenly guarded so that John couldn’t read it.

“I-” John paused, searching Sherlock’s face. “What are you apologising for?” he decided to ask instead; partially a deflection, partially a genuine question.

Sherlock’s cheeks grew impossibly more rosy, and he stayed quiet a few moments before seeming to remember that he held John’s tea mug cupped in his hands. “Tea! Your- your tea,” he said, nearly spilling said tea while delivering his abrupt response, “I’m sorry for taking a drink. Without permission.” The apology was stunted and clearly improvised, and left John just staring for a few long moments before opening his mouth to respond.

“It’s… fine,” he said again, though gears were still turning in his head.

“Good. Great,” Sherlock chirped, and cleared his throat as he looked down at the tea in his hands, not moving to take another sip.

“... Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

John waited until the other man hesitantly met his eyes again, and John fixed him with a serious, but soft look. “I-- It’s  _ all _ fine.” He wasn’t sure why it seemed so imperative that he give that reassurance, but he was instantly grateful that he’d thought to, because the tension that slowly, visibly lifted from Sherlock’s shoulders made John feel like he himself could breathe again. 

“... Good. Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly after a few long beats of silence stretched between them, and John decided that they’d reached a sort of unspoken agreement. Just what exactly the agreement was regarding, it was a little too soon to tell; and John didn’t dare to guess… but it may have had something to do with the way Sherlock’s tired eyes sparkled as a small, shy, and grateful smile quirked his lips in a charming sort of way. Or maybe it was something in the rosy red blooms of his cheeks as he hid his face once again behind John’s mug, taking another small sip of the tea inside.

John, then, needing to break the strangely-charmingly-awkward silence, cleared his throat and sat up straight. “Well. Um… I’m… oh, would you like your things now? Your laptop, clothes, all that?”

In response, Sherlock’s eyes widened and he nodded as he swallowed his mouthful of tea, some semblance of normalcy returning to the air around them. “Yes, please. I think I can make some progress on the case while I’m here. I don’t need to lie around being completely useless,” he said with a huff.

“The case. The Blessington case?” John inquired as he put what was left of his toast onto the plate and slid off the bed, remembering the spiderweb of strings between photographs and newspaper clippings on the wall in Sherlock’s flat. He turned and went to fetch the duffel out of the kitchen, and swiped the new pack of cigarettes off of the table as he did so.

“Of course, the Blessington case.” Sherlock sniffled a little, readjusting himself on the bed so that his knees were tucked up to his front, tea mug held to his chest as he watched John move about. “I’ve gathered bits and pieces of information over the past several days, but the men responsible remain elusive.” He let out a tired sigh and a soft grumble. “Even if you would allow for it, I’m not sure I could manage much legwork myself. So I’ll have to make do with what I can access from my laptop, along with what I gather from correspondents.”

John let out a hum. “I should have taken a photo of the massive web on your wall for you to look at.”

“Oh, no need. It’s on my laptop. And I remember it, anyway,” came the reply with a dismissive wave of one hand.

“Ah. Well, here’s your laptop, then,” John said as he came back to settle on the edge of the bed again, setting the duffle in front of Sherlock, who put the mug of tea aside and reached for the straps of the bag. “And a little treat from me,” he added, and tossed the carton of cigarettes, which the other man caught without effort.

Wide eyes looked from the small box in his large hands up to John, and Sherlock’s lips parted silently, a look of grateful disbelief on his face. “John,” he said, and looked back at the carton. “You- This is hardly something a doctor should be encouraging…”

John just shrugged. “True, but they’re less likely to kill you straight away than a relapse would. So as long as you promise not to light any in my flat, I’ll offer you this respite.”

The small smile on Sherlock’s lips was dazzling. “Thank you,” he said, and then, after a few moments, put the cigarettes aside before reaching for the duffle again. He unzipped the bag and dug into the contents, pulling out a toothbrush and deodorant with a hum and a nod, before pulling out his laptop and charging cord for both it and his mobile. He set them aside and then scooped out a small pile of pants, but as he set them aside, he did a double-take at the pile, and slowly pulled out a pair. “These were at the back of my drawer,” he commented evenly, and gave John a curious look.

John’s cheeks went scarlet again as he looked between Sherlock and the pants, and he pursed his lips.

“Ah,” Sherlock said, a sound of realisation as his suspicions were allegedly confirmed by the fact that John was blushing and remaining silent. “Find anything of interest in my pants drawer, Doctor?” he asked, and John could almost swear the man was purring.

“No,” John replied, far too quickly, and he blushed deeper as Sherlock grinned. John scowled. “Shut up.” 

Sherlock chuckled. “Relax, John. If it makes you feel any better, I happened to stumble across a few particular websites of interest whilst using your laptop.”

“What-” John looked to his desk to find his laptop missing, and found it a short distance away on the sofa. “The hell did you find?” he asked quickly, completely bypassing the question of just how Sherlock even got into his laptop.

Sherlock’s chuckle had turned into a full-bodied laugh at John’s expense, the man’s cheeks tinged pink, hands held to his stomach. And John found his fear and agitation dissipate at the sight and sound of it, a small smile forcing its way onto his face. “You have interesting tastes,” Sherlock continued through his laughter, and John could only roll his eyes and huff. 

“Don’t talk about it,” he grumbled, and tried not to think about just what, specifically, Sherlock had found in his search history.

Thankfully, Sherlock seemed to willingly drop the subject, but his smile remained on his face as he unpacked the rest of the bag. After nodding at the contents spread out over the top half of the bed, he put the clothes back into the bag and let the bag drop over the side of the bed and onto the floor, leaving his laptop and charging cords to rest on the bed beside him. “Thank you, John,” he said at last, “really. For… allowing me to stay here, for dealing with my brother, for- for getting me these,” he said, holding up the pack of cigarettes he’d kept in his lap. “Thank you.”

John frowned. “Are you running a fever, still? You’re doing an awful lot of thanking,” he teased, and reached forward to place his hand against Sherlock’s forehead.

The man rolled his eyes, but pushed into the contact. “Really, John,” he murmured as he met the doctor’s eyes again, a look of sincerity written on his face.

“You’re welcome,” John said at last with a small smile, and pulled his hand away. He heaved a sigh as he pushed himself to standing, and wordlessly made his way to the closet.

“What are you doing now?” Sherlock asked curiously, setting the cigarettes on the bedside table and starting to unravel his charging cords.

“I don’t fancy sleeping at the desk again tonight,” John said as he opened up the closet and crouched down to dig to the back of it where he knew a spare quilt was tucked away. “So I’m getting a sheet I can use for the sofa.” Quilt in hand, he stood and shut the closet door, then turned and tossed the blanket over onto the sofa for him to use later. It wouldn’t be terribly comfortable, but it would be far better than the desk; and a sight better than the floor would be.

“John, you don’t have to sleep on your sofa in your own home,” Sherlock protested, to which John held up a hand.

“Stop it. You’re going through withdrawal, I need you to be as comfortable as you possibly can be. It won’t kill me to spend a few days not sleeping in a bed. No arguing,” he insisted when Sherlock opened his mouth to interject, which left the other man frowning.

“You’re really too hospitable,” Sherlock grumbled, but didn’t argue further. Instead, he took his laptop charging cord and mobile cord, and leaned over the side of the bed with a soft groan to plug them into the wall just beside the bed. The action seemed to knock the wind out of him, as he was panting when he sat back up, and had to lean back against the wall and close his eyes to steady himself and catch his breath. “I don’t like this,” he managed after a moment.

“What, not having energy?” John asked with an amused grin as he strode over to assist, taking Sherlock’s laptop and plugging it in, before resting it on the nightstand. He took Sherlock’s phone from the nightstand and plugged it in, as well.

“Not having energy,” Sherlock confirmed, eyes still closed, “feeling both overheated and freezing at the same time, feeling like I may lose consciousness at any given moment,” he listed. “Nothing about this is pleasant.”

John huffed a laugh. “I don’t think anyone has ever known detox to be pleasant. It’s the reward after the suffering that most people go for, I think.”

Sherlock just moaned unpleasantly and let himself slide down the wall until he was half-laying down again, and then wriggled the rest of his way to lie down fully under the duvet, turning onto his side and curling up on himself.

“It’s been a long day,” John said, coming closer to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Because that was just something they did now. “You going to go to sleep?”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, eyes already closed and face slackened in relaxation. “Might. Yeah.”

John nodded. “I might, too. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to wake me up, yeah?”

Sherlock merely hummed softly again in the affirmative, and John, not wanting to disturb the other any longer, let his hand drop from the man’s curls. He gave a soft sigh and reached to take the tea mug and plate of unfinished toast from the nightstand, and headed for the kitchen where he tipped the uneaten toast into the bin, and dumped the now-lukewarm tea into the sink. A quick wash of the dishes later and John returned to the main room to the soft sounds of Sherlock’s gentle snoring emanating from the bed.

To keep from disturbing his sleeping guest, John made his way to the sofa, picking up a book along the way; a crime novel from his desk that he hadn’t had much time to read lately. He figured he could read and wind down a bit before he made himself some dinner, while keeping an eye on Sherlock. So he moved his laptop from the sofa to his desk so he himself could sit down, and he did so; sideways on the sofa, legs stretched out in front of him, feet against the armrest furthest from him while his back rested on the one behind him.

The book perched in his lap, John pulled the quilt down from where it’d landed earlier on the back of the sofa, and got settled before bringing the book up and opening it to the page he’d dog-eared likely weeks ago.

_ He looked around him and recognized nothing. It was a bright day with fast-scudding clouds and a warm wind. Fifty yards away there was an intersection, and a small boy was wielding a broom, keeping the crossing clear of horse manure and other rubbish. A carriage swirled past, drawn by two high-stepping bays. _

John just barely stifled a yawn as he turned the page.

_ Monk stepped down, still feeling weak, and made his way to the main road. It took him five minutes to see a vacant hansom, hail it and give the cabby the address. He sat back inside and watched as streets and squares flickered by, other vehicles, carriages, some with liveried footmen, more hansoms, brewers’ drays, costermongers’ carts. He saw peddlers and vendors, a man selling fresh eels, another with hot pies, plum duff-it sounded good, he was hungry, but he had no idea how much the fare would be, so he did not dare stop. _

This time, the yawn that welled up in John was not stifled. The doctor rubbed his eyes with his free hand.

_ A newspaper boy was shouting something, but they passed him too quickly to hear above the horse’s hooves. A one-legged man sold matches. _

John read the next line three times as he struggled to retain what he read, but his fatigue hit him like a brick wall as one moment he was reading something about Tottenham Court Road, and the next, the world was black.

\---

_ John. _

A murky voice cut through the darkness, and John gave a hum that sounded disembodied to his own ears.

_ “John?” _

A little clearer, this time. There was a soft nudge to a part of him - his shoulder?

“John. Wake up.”

The world was dark, but no longer black; there were the familiar shapes of John’s sitting room, coming to reality in shades of grey. The lights were off.

“John? Get up.”

John blinked sleep out of his eyes as he looked to his side to the source of the voice. He couldn’t quite make out features, but he knew who was summoning him, standing before his place on the sofa. “Sh’lock. Wha’ d’youwant?” he slurred, and let his head rest back against the armrest, eyes closing again, sleep beginning to creep back into his head.

_ “--cold, and you’re _ making uncomfortable noises. Get up.”

Sherlock’s voice was fading in and out of reality as John’s consciousness waxed and waned with each passing moment. He found his orientation shifting unexpectedly as he moved to sit up without knowing he was doing so, and suddenly he was being led by a hand on his forearm. 

“Hmm?” he inquired curiously as he padded through the dark room - which wasn’t pitch black, but his eyes were closed - and then hummed again as his thighs bumped against a solid surface. 

Some words that John couldn’t make out sounded from beside him, and then a gentle hand on his back, joined by one on his shoulder, was pushing him forward. John obediently went, his hands moving out to catch himself automatically and landing on a soft surface. His bed, he recognised after a moment as he went through the familiar motions of clumsily pulling the duvet down so he could crawl under it, half-aware of what was happening.

“I told you,” a low voice grumbled from behind him, “I’m cold, and you were making sounds like you were injured. Shut up and get under the duvet. And move over.”

“Mm’kay,” John mumbled back, flopping down onto the mattress with a sigh and wriggling to the far edge of the bed, turning over to press his back against the wall, making as much room for the other person as possible. The mattress dipped a moment later and he was joined in the bed by another body, which unabashedly pressed up to his front, snuggling into him. John hummed in pleasant surprise and let one arm drape over the other form as sleep gradually crept back into his bones, making his limbs heavy and lethargic. “G’night, Sherlock,” he said on a breath, and the world went quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First order of business: The excerpts from the book John is reading are from The Face of a Stranger by Anne Perry.
> 
> Second order of business: Thank you so much for clicking your way here and reading, and for all of your feedback. Seriously, thank you.
> 
> Third and final order of business: The past few weeks have been hectic because of work and back-to-university nonsense. Bear with me while I attempt to get myself on some sort of schedule again. Thank you all for your patience with me and my inconsistent updates. I appreciate you more than you know.
> 
> See you soon!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. Have some fluff and soul-searching.

It had been the sound of his own teeth clacking together that had woken him up. 

Sherlock was wracked with violent shivers, his forehead beaded with sweat but his extremities freezing in a confusing and sickening dichotomy. He was no longer curled up on himself to try and stave off stomach cramps, but for heat preservation; and his efforts were proving futile. In his half-asleep state, a singular thought -  _ body heat _ \- came to the forefront of his mind, and he ran with it, sitting up in the bed that wasn’t his and tossing the duvet aside before he could think to stop himself. His bare feet hit the cold wooden floor and his arms wrapped around his front protectively in a feeble attempt to preserve what heat he could as he hobbled, mostly blind as the streetlights streaming weakly through the gap in the curtains over John’s window were the only source of light in the room, over to stand before the sofa where his doctor slept, making soft noises of discontent as he slumbered. A novel was open and pressed to the man’s chest, and a quilt with a rather distasteful tartan pattern was lying askew, half over John and half on the floor.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was gravelly with sleep, and he cleared his throat. “John?” He reached out to nudge the man’s bicep with his knuckles. Still no response from the doctor, and Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “John. Wake up.”

Ah, there; the blond’s eyelids flickered gently, eyelashes fluttering as the man stirred towards wakefulness.

“John? Get up,” Sherlock urged, doing his best to be patient with his host - but he was sure he’d soon shake out of his own skin.

“Sh’lock?” John slurred, and if Sherlock weren’t so distracted by his own misery, he’d probably be thinking something along the lines of how the sight of John Watson waking up was a precious one. “Wha’ d’youwant?”

“I’m fucking cold,” Sherlock huffed out as he watched John’s head loll back against the armrest, eyes falling closed again. “And you’re making uncomfortable noises. Get up.” He reached out to grab John’s forearm as the man feebly pushed to sit up, legs swinging over the side of the sofa for his feet to rest on the floor. The novel and the quilt both fell unceremoniously to the floor, unnoticed and forgotten by both doctor and patient as Sherlock tugged impatiently on John’s arm. 

Without further prodding, John stood on less-than-stable legs. “Hmm?” he hummed as he hobbled with heavy, lethargic footfalls across the hardwood floor to the bed, which he ran into ungracefully.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fuck’s sake, I don’t understand how a  _ soldier _ can be such a heavy sleeper. Aren’t you people supposed to be awake and alert upon the first summoning?” he murmured as he put a hand on the man’s back, and another on his shoulder, before giving a light push. “I  _ told _ you,” he grumbled as he watched John clamber onto the bed and fumble for the duvet, “I’m cold, and you were making sounds like you were injured.” Possibly an exaggeration. “Shut up and get under the duvet. And move over,” he added when John had finally gotten somewhat situated. 

The doctor complied easily, much to Sherlock’s relief. “Mm’kay,” John sighed as he wormed his way under the duvet and pressed back against the wall, which left Sherlock to fill the space remaining; and he did so without hesitation.

He lifted the duvet and climbed into the bed, eager for some relief from the chill. Logically, he knew the room was a decent temperature, but the influenza-type symptoms he was experiencing, complete with cold sweats and shivers, left him in desperate need of warmth. So the moment he was actually in the bed and the duvet was pulled up around his and John’s shoulders, he boldly closed the distance between them, pressed up solidly against John’s front, tucked his knees up to slip one leg between the soldier’s, and pressed his face into the thin, tee-shirt fabric covering John’s sternum.

John’s hum could be felt from where Sherlock’s face was pressed to the man’s upper chest, as well as the words which he spoke after. “G’night, Sherlock,” came a tired voice, and Sherlock’s body stiffened in surprise as an arm came to rest solidly over and around his waist under the duvet. It was clear not a second later that John had fallen back unconscious as his breathing went shallow and even. Sherlock could feel the man’s heart thrumming against where his face was pressed to John’s chest, and the steady, percussive rhythm of it gradually lulled Sherlock into a sense of calm he hadn’t known in a long time. His own body relaxed under the comforting weight of John’s arm, and he shifted a little to press impossibly closer to the doctor; but doing so made the borrowed jumper he wore creep up his torso just the slightest bit, which resulted in John’s arm around his waist pressing against the bit of bare skin above Sherlock’s hip which had been revealed in the process. Sherlock stifled a gasp; he knew bare skin-to-skin contact was the most efficient way of sharing body heat, but the warmth that spread through him was the result of something entirely different. It was a warmth that settled hot and heavy like molten lead in his chest and in his gut, somehow comfortable and disquieting all at once. He lifted his head from John’s chest to peer up at the man’s face, slack with sleep, and thought of what an honour it was to see John as vulnerable as he currently looked.

Then he thought of the fact that he wasn’t the only person to see John like this; there had been others before him, perhaps in this position, curled up to John’s chest and listening to his heartbeat and studying the contours of his face in the dark. The difference was that, unlike Sherlock, who was here on his doctor’s orders being supervised as he stumbled through the arduous detoxifying process, those before him had watched John sleep through a blissful, post-coital haze, rather than a fever-induced stupor. It was because of his withdrawal-addled system, lowered defenses, and lack of a mental filter that Sherlock dared to imagine a different scene; where he was someone else, and there were less items of clothing separating them, and what he felt of John’s arm against his bare waist was amplified to cover his entire body. Maybe John’s golden hair would be all askew, still sweat-damp from exertion. Maybe Sherlock’s would be, too. 

Sherlock took in a breath and let it out with frustration, closing his eyes tightly and pressing his face hard against John’s sternum; it had to be the fever making his mind wander unrestrained, he thought as he fought past the unfamiliar and bitter taste of jealousy coating his tongue. He pushed down the warmth and the fluttering sensations and the longing as best he could, because of course, it was all ridiculous; he hadn’t brushed his teeth before bed, he hadn’t changed clothes in two days, he was sickly pale and deathly thin and bony and all in all resembled a bloody sick dog on its last legs. He was invading his therapist’s space and taking advantage of all John offered out of the goodness of his heart and in return was letting himself get lost in a fantasy that he hadn’t intended to become so invested in. It was an impossible dream that had gotten terribly out of hand.

But just when Sherlock thought he might actually be sick from the guilt that began to settle, solid and unpleasant in the pit of his stomach, he remembered John’s fingers in his hair; something that had happened numerous times over the past couple days, completely unprompted. He thought of John, facing Mycroft, and refusing to feed him information regarding Sherlock’s well-being, even for money that the soldier so desperately needed. He thought of John, holding him on the cold tile floor of the bathroom until his trembling ceased. He thought of John, clear, cerulean eyes locking with his, swimming with so many words left unsaid, before turning away, a vibrant flush painting his cheeks, and then assuring Sherlock that it was “ _ all fine _ ,” whatever the bloody hell  _ that  _ meant.

Another huff of exasperation and Sherlock wormed his way impossibly closer to the doctor, some part of him hoping that maybe the scents of tea and rain and the barest traces of musk would drown out the chaos in his tempestuous mind.

After several minutes of breathing in John and listening to John’s heartbeat and feeling John’s chest rise and fall shallowly with his breath, the thoughts in Sherlock’s head miraculously began to fade away from the forefront of his mind, at least temporarily. Only then did he allow himself to settle further into the mattress and give a sigh of exhausted relief. His head still ached and his stomach felt hollow and incredibly fragile, as if the subtlest motion could send him whirling into a bout of nausea once more, but the heat that John gave off in his sleep seemed to seep into the marrow of Sherlock’s bones, warming him from his very core. Sherlock reveled in the comfort, more openly greedy now than he would perhaps normally be as he let one hand snake gingerly up to rest on John’s waist. It was a delicate touch, one that went unnoticed by the sleeping man; Sherlock watched the other’s face raptly for any signs of disturbance as he felt for the hem of John’s shirt, and then, carefully, stuck his fingers beneath it so his hand could rest on John’s bare waist. 

John’s skin was  _ hot _ to Sherlock’s cold fingers, and he let out a cautious, trembling breath as he let the touch solidify, his hand lying flat against the other’s heated flesh. He dared not move his hand, though; because what he felt was most certainly muscle with a thin layer of fat covering it, firm but pleasantly soft, and while he wanted very badly to explore just what John’s time in the service had done to the rest of his body, he was not so deluded to not think of the fact that John would most certainly wake up and would absolutely not appreciate such a perusal.

Maybe in another life, in another time, John would appreciate such a gesture. But Sherlock wasn’t willing to risk it now; after a lifetime of isolation, he wasn’t eager to tarnish the first positive relationship he’d ever been a part of. At least, not more than he likely already had.

The shivering had subsided, and Sherlock, rendered exhausted by his withdrawal symptoms and his racing thoughts, closed his eyes to the world and fell headfirst into a heavy slumber.

 

\---

 

The first thing John noticed upon waking was that he was warm. Incredibly warm. Almost insufferably warm.

The profound heat was justified when John realised without opening his eyes that he was not on the sofa where he fell asleep, but rather on a familiar mattress. With that realisation came a flood of sensations as his sleep-addled brain caught up with his senses; the telltale rise and fall of a body with subtle, shallow breaths against his chest and under his arm; soft, rhythmic exhales against his clavicle; the feeling of hair tickling his chin and nose; gentle almost-snores emanating from the space beneath his chin, by his sternum; limbs that weren’t his tangled in his own, his legs being intertwined with another set and a limb, heavy with sleep, draped over his side with a hand halfway up his shirt.

Still slow with lethargy, John’s heavy eyelids peeled open and squinted against the soft morning light that streamed through the gap in his curtains, and blinked against tufts of dark hair that immediately obscured his vision. As carefully as possible, John tipped his head back and pulled just slightly away to get a better visual gauge of the situation. When he looked down, his heart seemed to constrict in his chest and he let out a barely-audible huff of air, a breathy laugh of amazement, a fond smile distorting his lips, because Sherlock’s own lips were parted and distorted in shape from where his cheek was smooshed against John’s bicep which he appeared to be using as a pillow (when had that happened?). He was tucked into John’s chest, looking nothing like the tall, looming, ominous and foreboding figure he normally cut, but instead appearing impossibly small, fragile, and youthful. The sunlight which streamed through the curtains cut through Sherlock’s riotous curls which, from a distance, looked nearly black; but now were illuminated in a halo of auburn.

The light that hit Sherlock’s skin cut in a neat line that ran just under Sherlock’s eyes, diagonally from his temple down to where his nose was almost obscured where his face was pressed into John, and the light seemed to reflect off of the man’s alabaster skin; not unlike how the morning sun reflected off of an unblemished blanket of fresh snow. Except with this proximity came the realisation that Sherlock’s skin wasn’t unmarked as he’d originally thought; a nearly-invisible dusting of the lightest freckles adorned what John could see of Sherlock’s cheeks and nose, and a mole peeked out from the swooping neckline of the jumper Sherlock wore; though John still thought it a far cry from blemished.

What warmth John was absorbing from their close proximity was no match for the heat that flared in his chest, born of fondness and of something he didn’t dare to name, because the position they were in was undeniably intimate; their legs were a hopeless tangle of limbs beneath the duvet, his arm was twined around Sherlock’s waist while Sherlock’s arm was around his own, with one hand pushed up under his shirt, the fingers lax and palm pressed against his skin just under his shoulder blade. Normally a scenario he would be extraordinarily uncomfortable with, seeing as Sherlock’s hand was scant inches from the entry wound on the back of his shoulder, John found that he was absurdly comfortable. He couldn’t keep himself from thinking how impossibly perfect it was to wake up this way, in the arms of another person, and he imagined that they painted quite the tableau, the two of them, tangled up in each other and reaching a state of half-wakefulness together.

Except then, a very sudden and violent pang in John’s lower gut reminded him that he was but a mere mortal with biological needs that needed to be recognised and fulfilled, and he sucked his bottom lip between his teeth before, with much chagrin, he began to stir.

“Sherlock?” He prompted quietly, jostling the arm under Sherlock’s head as gently as possible in an attempt to rouse the other from slumber. “Sherlock. Hey. Sherlock.” The arm around Sherlock’s waist carefully moved so that John’s hand could access Sherlock’s hair, which his fingers began to gently card through. “Sherrrrlock,” he crooned softly, and again, until he garnered a response. Said response came in the form of a sleepy grunt before the younger man burrowed impossibly closer into John, hiding his face completely in the fabric covering John’s sternum with a low, gravelly groan of discontent, clearly unappeased at being awoken. John’s chest hurt.

“Sherlock,” the doctor said again through a beaming, sleepy smile, “I’m awfully cozy, believe me; but I’ve  _ really _ got to use the toilet.” His bladder throbbed, and his smile turned into more of a grimace. “Seriously, Sherlock. Let me up.”

“You’re perfectly capable of getting up,” came a muffled reply from the man who was undeniably restricting John’s access to the toilet.

“Excuse me, you’re pressing me into the wall, and your legs have me rooted here. Let me  _ up _ ,” he tried again, and gave a playful tug to Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock just let out another groan before he reluctantly retracted his legs, and then his arm, before he rolled away, over onto his other side to hug the bulk of the duvet to his front.

Chuckling, John pushed himself up and managed to slide down to the foot of the bed without disrupting his impromptu bedmate any more than necessary, and made it to the bathroom without further incident. After closing and locking the bathroom door behind him, John went about his morning routine of relieving himself, washing his hands, and brushing his teeth, before making his way back into the bedroom, feeling a touch more awake than he had been several minutes ago. A look at the bed revealed Sherlock had rolled over again to take up the space John had previously been occupying, and looked to be asleep again.

He was proven wrong after a long moment when the heap of detective and duvet on the bed uttered a murmured demand: “Come back.”

The smile John hadn’t noticed he’d been wearing broadened with unbridled fondness, and he let out a hum. “It’s half nine,” he said, glancing at the clock on his bedside table, “and you’re still tired? It’s past time for breakfast,” he teased, even as he ambled closer to the bed.

“Would you believe me if I said I was still suffering hypothermia?” Sherlock asked, turning over in the bed to peek up at John over the edge of the duvet he’d gathered around him like a cocoon. “Or could I sway you by claiming that half-nine is an ungodly hour and no one should be awake and functioning this early? Whichever argument is stronger, apply that,” the man said, his words slowing down as he yawned, his eyes scrunching adorably as he did so, “and then come back,” he finished, wriggling to press his back to the wall, punctuating his demand by making ample space on the bed for John.

And the doctor had no choice but to blame his weak constitution on the early hour despite his regular routine of getting up closer to seven in the morning. He huffed a soft laugh and accepted his fate with little reluctance, approaching the bed and climbing into it, much to Sherlock’s visible delight. The man wasted no time in tossing a bit of the duvet back over John and worming his way close to press against John’s front just as he’d been earlier, and John was about to question Sherlock’s blatant enthusiasm when a pair of what felt like ice blocks pressed into his shins.

_ “Fucking hell,” _ John said, his body jolting at the sudden sensation of ice-cold feet seeking to draw all of his heat out of him through his shins and calves, “I woke up nearly sweating, and your feet feel like they’ve been in a fucking ice box. Fuck’s sake,” he mumbled, doing his best to keep still as Sherlock tucked his toes beneath and between John’s legs in an effort to heat them up.

“Poor blood circulation,” the younger man murmured back by way of explanation, his words already slurring as a blanket of lethargy settled heavily over him like the duvet that covered them both.

As for John, while he was more comfortable than he ever thought he could be in his bed with the support-lacking mattress and the low-thread-count sheets, the comfort remained on a physical level only; his rational brain reminded him that Sherlock was his patient, and this was highly,  _ highly _ unprofessional. This was  _ scandalous. _ In bed with a patient? In any sense of the phrase, he knew it was uncalled for, and certainly grounds for expulsion. 

“Shut up.”

“What?” John started, looking down at the mop of dark curls that obscured Sherlock’s face.

“You’re thinking; it’s annoying,” Sherlock grumbled back, and John quirked a wistful grin.

“Am I? What am I thinking about, then?” he ventured, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in a nervous, habitual gesture.

A sigh emanated from down by his chest before Sherlock shifted, his long body unfolding so that his head came up to rest on the pillow, his face inches from John’s where it rested on his own bicep, and silvery-slate eyes with hints of green and blue that were far more sharp than they ought to be searched his own as beats of silence stretched between them.

“You’re calling into question your professionalism,” Sherlock started, voice little more than a low rumble of sound that John felt more than heard. “And while I admire your penchant for thinking your actions through, believe me when I say that I know thinking too much can be detrimental.”

John blinked once, twice, and his wistful smile returned. He never thought he’d hear Sherlock, of all people, discourage thinking. “Can you blame me, though?” he asked, his voice small and tone thin, even to his own ears.

Sherlock gave a semblance of a shrug with the shoulder not pressed to the mattress. “I suppose I can’t.” A beat. Then a sigh. And then: “I’m not your patient.”

A frown replaced John’s small smile. “How do you figure?” he asked, incredulous.

“Am I in your database?”

John opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out as he thought back to the first day they met, when, after Sherlock and Greg had both left and John had been closing up shop, he’d found the partially-filled form on Jessica’s desk. It hadn’t been filed with the rest, because the information was voided; Greg, who was neither patient nor relative, had filled it out. It couldn’t be used. And Sherlock’s name hadn’t made an appearance in any of his appointment books: The only time he’d seen Sherlock’s name on a screen was when he’d found the man’s website. Other than that, they’d exchanged a handful of messages. That had been it. No official appointments. No paper trail.

“I… no,” John relented, albeit hesitantly.

“Then consider me not your patient. I’m not claiming myself to be your patient.” Sherlock’s features were stoic, poised in a way that John envied as his own mind raced and struggled to wrap around the concept of he and Sherlock being merely… what? 

“So what… what are you?” John asked, tension settling around them like a thick fog, making each breath a laborious effort.

When Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip and averted his eyes instead of answering, John tried again. “Are you suggesting we’re just… friends?” Oh, God. Why did that sound like an insult? John cringed inwardly and did his best not to let himself appear crestfallen or affected in any way on the outside. “I mean- friends go to each other for their problems.” Jesus, it didn’t feel right, talking like this. “Friends get each other lunch-” he remembered when Sherlock brought food to his office “-and grab coffee… And I suppose friends can loiter about murder scenes,” he tacked on with a very small smile.

He couldn’t read Sherlock’s expression when the man looked at him again. “Do friends share a bed?” he asked, and it probably wasn’t meant to be a joke, but John chuckled breathily anyway.

“They can,” he murmured, remembering times in uni when he and his roommate would each have friends over, and they’d stuff themselves into beds together. It wasn’t unnatural. “And I’ll defend myself here by bringing attention to the fact that  _ you _ dragged me over here in the middle of the night. I was half asleep.”

Sherlock had half a mind to look almost admonished. “I was cold,” he whined in defense, and John laughed again, a little more fully this time. The tension was still there, looming over them, but it was a sight less palpable.

“Well I hope I was able to help.” John’s smile had returned, more genuine now as he searched Sherlock’s face, attempting to discern what the blank expression meant. Finally, the younger man let out a soft sigh.

“You did.” With that, Sherlock let his eyes close and John could see as well as feel when the tension from the other’s shoulders lessened, and the body next to him relaxed into the mattress. 

“You still going to sleep?” John asked quietly after a few long moments.

“Mmmhh,” Sherlock responded, and John took it as an affirmative.

“... You want me to stay?” the doctor ventured tentatively.

A long moment went by where John could almost hear Sherlock thinking, before finally: “Mmh.” 

John pursed his lips, rightfully assuming that was meant to be up for interpretation. He was about to vacate the bed when a flex of Sherlock’s icy toes against his shins reminded him that he was there for a reason. His mind made up, he adjusted his head where it rested against his arm and let out a soft sigh as he settled, and he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Sherlock’s features soften in what he might call relief when John didn’t get up.

_ Sherlock wasn’t his patient. _

John wondered if it was really that simple. Realistically, he knew that any patient could willingly pull themselves out of his programme and no longer see him, thereby ending their relationship as doctor and patient. But Sherlock had been in his office, he’d opened up to him, and now he was voiding their professional relationship so that John wouldn’t fret over the fact that they were in a bed together. What was John supposed to think about that? 

Sherlock wasn’t wrong; he wasn’t in John’s database at all. There was no trail, paper or electronic. The only evidence that they’d even spoken was their text messages, and John highly doubted that their personal relationship outside of therapy would stir up enough of a scandal to justify his texts being looked at by law enforcement.

But of course, that line of thinking brought into question John’s perception of the relationship he and Sherlock shared. A therapist and a former patient being friends post-practise wasn’t unheard of, and wasn’t frowned upon - it was actually rather humanising for the former patients, and some great friendships could be formed. So why was John so hung up on this idea of  _ friendship? _ Maybe it had been the way he’d said  _ “just friends” _ mere minutes prior that made his insides roil and his chest constrict painfully. 

Just friends. Nothing more than friends.

John looked at the lax features of the brilliant young man whose head had taken up residence on John’s pillow, and let his chest burn with the discernment that  _ he wanted more. _ He’d known he wanted more, but this - lying in a bed next to the man he lusted after - it was more than John’s heart could take.

But Sherlock wanted him here. And what Sherlock wanted, John would supply, no matter the emotional turmoil it caused him.

John’s fingers twitched against his side. Since he’d gotten back into the bed, he hadn’t moved to touch Sherlock at all, and the only point of contact between them now was Sherlock’s frozen feet against his legs. Maybe it was his longing to touch that turned Sherlock’s claim to not be his patient into an invitation, but John was ultimately glad that he finally lifted his arm and let it wind its way tentatively around Sherlock’s waist, because Sherlock sighed audibly and unabashedly shifted closer across the bed, his head tucking under John’s chin just as before while one hand snaked over the doctor’s waist.

John didn’t know whether Sherlock was still awake or if his sleeping body was reacting out of instinct, but he smiled at the notion that, either consciously or unconsciously, Sherlock was drawn to him. On some level. And while he still had many questions that went unasked and unanswered, he’d offer himself a respite in the form of Sherlock’s lithe frame pressed against him for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, time to address the hiatus: Personal things and school things and life things happen sometimes, and I am infinitely apologetic for letting it get in the way of this story. I really like this story, and I am definitely going to finish it. I have a couple chapters outlined now, so I'll post more soon. 
> 
> I really am sorry for my absence, but I thank you all for sticking with me. Seriously. I'm just happy that people are reading my story at all.
> 
> This chapter was necessary to address the budding chemistry between our boys. ACTION will be coming up very, VERY soon, so stay tuned for the next chapter.
> 
> Thank you again, all of you. <3 See you soon.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (EDIT: I didn't like the way this chapter turned out after reading it back for the millionth time, so this is a repost - basically the same as what I posted this morning with some small details changed, mostly for flow and continuity. It's better than the original posting, trust me.)
> 
> Hello, all. It's been an absurdly long time. Please accept my heartfelt apologies for this insane delay; life is a hell of a thing. So is university. Thank you all so much for your endless patience and understanding. <3
> 
> This is a bigger and quite plot-driven chapter to make up for the wait. And the next chapter is in the works, so while I'm not going to make any concrete promises for a deadline, I'd say... you can expect it, most likely, within the next week.
> 
> Thank you all again for your patience, and, as always, thank you for clicking your way here, reading, leaving kudos, commenting; anything and everything is so, so appreciated.
> 
> Onto the chapter!

_Ping!_

 

_Ping!_

 

Squinting against the golden light streaming in through the window near the bed, Sherlock gave a displeased groan at having been stirred from slumber by the familiar chime of his mobile. He burrowed his head further into the firm solidity of the chest in front of him in a futile attempt to escape the unwelcome summoning.

 

_Ping!_

 

“Ugh- for fuck’s sake,” John mumbled, words as heavy-laden with sleep as the arm draped solidly over Sherlock’s side.

“It’s Lestrade,” Sherlock supplied somberly into the fabric of the tee-shirt his face was pressed against, and John grumbled again in response.

“Tell him to bugger off.”

The comment was followed by movement; a nestling down further into their shared embrace and the tightening of an arm around Sherlock’s waist both served to punctuate the statement. Positively charmed, Sherlock smiled against John’s sternum, and he could hear his smile in his own words when he spoke: “I don’t think that’d be very good for business,” he quipped with a gravelly chuckle. He took in a breath - one last inhale of John’s essence - before pushing himself away from the doctor.

His smile broadened at the resistance he was met with in the arm around him, and he bit his lip around a manic grin when John gave a whine of discontent at Sherlock’s departure. The detective leaned over John clumsily, half lying on him in the process, to grasp his mobile from where it sat upon the nightstand by the bed even as it went off with another text alert.

“I fell asleep,” John said as he brought both of his hands up to scrub slowly over his face, an observation made in a tone that suggested the ex-soldier could hardly believe it himself.

“You did,” Sherlock confirmed with a smile as he flopped down onto the bed on his back beside John, who rolled more fully onto his side to press his face into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“What time is it?” The man’s voice was muffled by drowsiness as well as by Sherlock’s bicep.

“Just after one.” Sherlock glanced at the small digital numbers in the top right corner of his phone screen as he held his mobile aloft over his face. There was a brief shuffling beside him as John shifted enough to peer up at the mobile screen as Sherlock opened his messages.

_**Text Message From: Lestrade** _

**_Received 13:04_ **

_I’ve got good and bad news for you. The good news is that we’ve had a sighting of one of your Russian blokes. -GL_

Anxious at the prospect of what the bad news could be, Sherlock pulled his lips between his teeth as he scrolled to read the next text.

_Bad news is the tip is coming in a day late and the sighting was near Heathrow. -GL_

The detective let out a huff of annoyance.

“Near Heathrow? The Airport?” John asked, and Sherlock didn’t have to look to know there was a perplexed furrow in the man’s brow.

He gave a hum of assent. “Yes. Which means there’s every possibility that our suspects are no longer in London. Or even England.” Despondency began to settle in a stifling and oppressive blanket over him, because even he knew that in his state, there would be no leaving the country. For starters, John wouldn’t allow it; and in the event that the doctor did condone long-distance travel, Sherlock wasn’t even sure he would be able to manage a trip to the airport, let alone a flight that could potentially take him overseas. Mere thoughts of bright lights and loud turbines - even if he managed to secure a private flight to avoid the arduous foot-traffic in the airport itself - were almost too much to bear. John was mumbling some half-hearted reassurances that Sherlock didn’t pay attention to as he read the remaining unopened texts from Lestrade.

_Haven’t heard from you in a few days. Have you managed to dig anything else up? -GL_

_On my way to your flat. Be ready to come with me. -GL_

“John? Did you pack any decent trousers in that duffle you got from my flat?” he asked as he quickly typed out a response:  _Not in my flat, currently. Stand by for an address. -SH_

“Um,” John thought aloud, “a pair of sweatpants, and a pair of jeans… Why?”

Sherlock’s lips pursed as he read Lestrade’s reply -  _The hell are you? -GL_ \- before sitting up in the bed, thumbs flying over the keys as he shared his location with the Detective Inspector. “Good,” he said offhandedly, and then pushed at the duvet to receive a displeased noise from John at the sudden exposure to the open air. “Get up,” Sherlock demanded, turning to push gently at John’s shoulder, “we’re going to have company. I need to shower- may I use your soap?”

The look on John’s face at the barrage of demands and questions would have been comical if Sherlock weren’t so determinedly focused on the task at hand. He struggled a moment to push himself to his knees on the mattress before he inelegantly clambered to the foot of the bed, since John seemed to be taking his sweet time to remove himself from Sherlock’s path.

“I- yes, you may. Help yourself to whatever you need,” came the doctor’s response as Sherlock bent down to rifle through the duffle bag containing his clothes John had retrieved for him.

“Good, thank you.” His pale fingers grasped his toothbrush, a pair of pants, and a pair of socks before finding a soft, byzantine blue tee-shirt with a subtle vee-neck, and the pair of jeans. He was pleased to find that they were dark and rather slim through the legs. They weren’t his dress trousers, but they were suitable. Upon standing, he turned and made a bee-line for the bathroom, calling “get dressed” over his shoulder as an afterthought, and was just crossing the threshold into the bathroom when a meek-sounding voice emanating from the bed stopped him.

“You want me to come with you?”

Halting in the doorway, the detective placed the hand not holding his clothes on the door frame and leaned back out of the door to look at John, who sat up on the bed, the duvet having fallen down to pool loosely about his hips. A look of hopeful surprise and confusion clouded his features, and Sherlock let himself grin. “Of course. I need my soldier with me,” he said, ignoring the heat that crept up his own neck at the statement in favour of savouring the light that blossomed in John’s eyes. “After all, could be dangerous,” he added, and winked for good measure, before stepping fully into the bathroom; but not before relishing the pleased flush that took over John’s cheeks.

Once the door was shut, Sherlock divested himself of his borrowed clothes and set them by the sink before turning on the shower tap. He made quick work of showering, pointedly  _not_ basking in the rich scent of sandalwood in the shampoo he used. He’d found a clean washcloth folded on a shelf by the shower and used it to scrub the invisible grime from his body; it had been days since he’d showered, and he hadn’t felt quite right since he’d gotten sick. It was a wonder John had been so willing to be so close to him for any length of time. The water, scalding hot, cut through Sherlock’s bone-deep chills and did wonders to clear his mind; while his head had been unavoidably clouded for the past few days with intermittent thoughts of the army-doctor who was playing as his host, which wasn’t helped by the fact that he was going through withdrawal and there were no new solid leads in the case, now he was beginning to gain his focus back. Despite the fact that his criminals were likely out of the country, that didn’t mean that all hope was lost. At least, that’s what he told himself as he shut off the taps, shook his curls free of excess water, and exited the shower.

He avoided looking at himself directly in the mirror, knowing what he’d find if he happened to glance; bones, draped in skin marred from years of neglect, drug abuse, and the occasional scuffle while fighting crime. Instead, he took a towel from the rung on the wall and hastily dried off his limbs and torso before rubbing it through his thick curls, which sprung back to life once relieved from most of the moisture. Sherlock made quick work of brushing his teeth while he pulled on his pants and struggled into his jeans - which were more difficult to put on than he’d anticipated due to his being freshly out of the shower - and he finally pulled on his socks before rinsing out his mouth, setting his toothbrush on the sink, and exiting the bathroom with his shirt in his hands.

John was ready, sporting a dark pair of jeans to match Sherlock’s, and another selection from his seemingly endless supply of atrocious jumpers, this one being a sage green that was easy on the eyes - but that, in Sherlock’s opinion, didn’t compliment John’s as well as another colour might. Said eyes, midnight blue and sparkling above a gentle smile, turned to him from where John stood at the stove, fiddling with the kettle, and Sherlock was arrested by the look before it morphed into something unreadable as the eyes trailed downward. It was then that Sherlock realised he hadn’t yet put on his shirt, and he was thankful for the flush already present on his cheeks from the heat of the shower as he quickly, self-consciously pulled on the garment. He cleared his throat as he tugged the hem of the shirt down snugly and then dared to look back up at John again. “What are you doing?” he asked, eyes darting to John’s hands above the stove.

“Making tea,” the doctor said, as if it were obvious - which it ought to have been, Sherlock thought as he moved across the room to grab his shoes where they sat by the door.

“No time for tea!” he called as he kneeled to put them on, and didn't bother stifling his grin at the displeased groan that came from the kitchen. “Lestrade is likely nearly here, and we can’t waste any time. You can get tea later.”

A mumbled series of expletives he couldn’t make out sounded behind him along with trudging footfalls as John made his way across the room. The footsteps stopped near the bed, from what Sherlock could hear, and the detective paused in tying his shoe as he pondered a moment.

“Yes, you should bring your gun,” he said, and heard a snort of amusement in response.

“You’re sure you’re not psychic?” The question was followed by the sound of wood sliding against wood as the drawer to the bedside table was pulled open, and Sherlock listened with intent as John habitually clicked the safety off and back on, checked the chamber, turned the gun over in his grip, and then a sigh mingling with a rustle of fabric signified the man tucking the firearm into its designated place nestled against the small of his back.

By the time Sherlock stood and turned around, John was shutting the drawer of the bedside table, and the doctor looked up at Sherlock and smiled. The detective offered a small smile back before a ping from Sherlock’s mobile where it sat on the bed drew their attention. John picked it up and peered at the screen, before tossing it to Sherlock, who caught it with ease.

“Looks like he’s here,” the blond supplied as Sherlock opened up the text.

_I’m out front. -GL_

“Great,” Sherlock chirped, and grabbed his coat from the hook by the door, tossing John’s to him in the process. A quick check of his coat pockets found everything he needed, and he made for the door, but when he turned around, John wasn’t behind him. “John?” he called out, fingers twitching against the doorknob as he itched to get to Lestrade’s squad car.

“Just grabbing something! Go ahead, I’ll be right out,” came the response, and Sherlock frowned and rolled his eyes, but he followed the doctor’s command and left with a huff, letting the door fall closed behind him. He all but bolted down the stairs and burst through the front door to see the familiar car sitting by the kerb, an impatient-looking detective inspector sitting in the front seat, thumbs tapping anxiously on the top of the steering wheel. Once the man saw Sherlock, he raised his eyebrows - likely in response to Sherlock’s state of dress, the detective thought - but thankfully didn’t verbalise his thoughts on the matter once Sherlock got to the car, opened up the back door, and dipped inside to settle in the back seat.

“The hell is this place?” Lestrade asked in lieu of a greeting, the car shifting as the man’s foot pressed the brake pedal and his hand fiddled with the gear shift.

“Wait!” Sherlock exclaimed, leaning forward in his seat, “don’t leave yet.”

“Why no-”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

Greg gave him an incredulous look in the rear-view mirror, his confusion audible in his voice when he spoke. “Sherlock, we have to  _go._ I’m not letting you invite your druggie friends along on this-”

At that moment, movement from the door of the complex they were parked in front of drew their attention, and John appeared, hands tucked into his pockets and hurrying towards the car with an unfairly adorable and quirky smile on his face. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back out the window, even though the doctor likely couldn’t see it, but his concentration was broken by Lestrade speaking again.

“Is that Dr. Watson?”

Sherlock glanced towards the front of the car, and his smile dropped immediately when Lestrade’s eyes searched him carefully, almost knowingly, in the rearview mirror. Sherlock’s own eyes narrowed defensively. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Lestrade said with mock-innocence.

“Shut  _up,_ ” Sherlock reiterated, beginning to seethe under the gaze which was growing impossibly more amused with each passing moment, but the amusement turned to regular cheer in the DI’s eyes when the back door of the car opened again and John climbed into the back seat with a small grunt of effort. The doctor sighed as he settled and shut the door.

“Doctor Watson! How are you, mate?” Lestrade greeted, and Sherlock rolled his eyes heavily at the over-abundant enthusiasm - though he was placated slightly by John’s happy smile, which he caught out of the corner of his vision.

“John, please,” the doctor said, “I’m doing alright. And yourself?”

“Well enough, well enough,” Lestrade said, pulling away from the kerb and putting his lights and siren on as he began to speed down the street. “Sherlock didn’t tell me you’d be coming along,” he continued, and Sherlock set his jaw, thin arms crossing over his narrow chest. “I hope I didn’t  _interrupt_ anything…” The man’s voice trailed off as he looked between the two men in the back seat via his rearview mirror.

What Sherlock could see of John’s profile from his peripherals turned absolutely scarlet at the insinuation, and Sherlock would be lying if he said his own cheeks didn’t gain a rosy tint as well. “Oh- no, I- um-” John tripped over his words, and Sherlock found it impossibly charming, however inconvenient it was.

“Hey, it’s fine, I’m not judging,” Lestrade went on. “Expected it weeks ago. Sherlock kept denying it but he never shut up about you-”

“Lestrade, you may want to shut up,  _now,_ ” Sherlock interrupted, trying desperately to not let his mortification show as he shot daggers with his eyes at Greg, who met his gaze in the mirror once again with a cheeky grin.

“Fine, I’ll leave it,” the man said as he turned a corner. And, thankfully, he did; not that it helped much though, as Sherlock noticed John looking at him curiously out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock kept his own eyes fixated pointedly on a spot on the back of Greg's headrest as the DI turned the conversation towards more important matters as they sped down the main road, cars pulling off to the side to make way for them as they sped towards New Scotland Yard. “So we had the eyewitness at the station a while ago,” Greg began, “and she couldn’t give us too much, but she did manage to supply us with security footage from the shop she runs that my team is searching through.”

“Are they looking at flight records and security feeds?” Sherlock asked, eyes turning to look out the window out of habit, watching the world blur by.

“Yeah,” Greg confirmed, “we’ve got people looking through everything going into and coming out of Heathrow from around the time of the sighting up to now.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Be sure to have people checking flight records and security footage from other airports, in case they’re trying to trick us by showing up a few minutes from Heathrow so we just look there,” he said, and ran a hand through his still-slightly-damp curls. “London City, Gatwick, Luton, Southend…” He let out a sigh and let his head loll back against the headrest.

“Good idea,” Lestrade murmured as he turned another corner.

Relative silence settled upon them, until an unexpected voice broke it. “You really think they’re smart enough to pull a stunt like that?”

Sherlock turned to look at John, who still sported a light flush on his face that trailed down his neck to disappear under his jacket, but the doctor was valiantly trying to stave it off and distract himself from it by getting involved in the conversation. When the man gave Sherlock an expectant look, the detective realised belatedly that he’d been staring rather than offering an answer. He took in a sharp breath through his nose. “I think they’re smarter than we give them credit for,” he supplied, turning his gaze back to the front seat of the car, looking blankly at a spot on the front window. “These aren’t just petty criminals. They’re members of a gang whose origins date back to the seventies.”

“I guess you have been doing your homework,” Lestrade quipped from the front seat. Sherlock ignored him.

“The gang was founded sometime around 1970,” Sherlock explained, purely for John’s benefit, “with their first major heist taking place in 1975 when they robbed the Worthington Bank of around seven-thousand quid.” He glanced over to John, and was captivated by the raptness with which the doctor appeared to be listening to him. Sherlock had to look away again, wetting his lips unconsciously out of nervousness before he continued. “After the heist, they began leaving tags - this was mostly after 1980 when street art took hold in England,” he added, “but nonetheless, they adapted the name the newspapers at the time gave them: The Worthington Bank Gang. Cliché,” he said with a grimace and a shrug, “but understandable given that their talents lie in crime rather than originality. They developed a tattoo design - the one we saw on Blessington’s ankle - to distinguish gang members and brand them, as a way to prove their loyalty, and as a means of identification, should it be necessary.”

“That’s all well and good,” John interrupted, “but why did they kill Blessington? What did he do to piss them off? Did they just get mad at him for leaving?”

Sherlock gave a low hum, rifling through the facts in his mind and tilting his head as he gazed out of the front window. “Blessington’s real name was Sutton. For whatever reason, sometime before 1988, he turned informant and turned in his fellow gang members. Perhaps he was looking for a way out, perhaps he got caught out and bargained with law enforcement… there’s nothing in police records that explains why he came forward, and of course, we can’t ask him,” he said, “but regardless, he turned in Tobin Cartwright, who was the ringleader of the lot at the time. He was committed, naturally, but died in prison shortly thereafter due to  _‘unspecified health complications,’_ which likely means he was murdered behind bars,” he finished, irritation clear in his words.

“Christ,” John murmured, “no wonder the guy was so keen on leaving. I would have been, too.”

“Honestly, I want to say we could have helped him,” Lestrade cut in from the front seat.

“You think he would have come forward about his past?” Sherlock asked dubiously, “and risk facing the same fate? Not a chance.” He huffed, slumping back in his seat. “Blessington was spineless. He turned in his former leader with no prompting and ran away from his life; granted, it may have been in the name of justice rather than out of fear, but it still stands that he would never be willing to come to police  _again_ and take responsibility for his past. Even if it killed him. Which it did.”

The car fell silent, but it didn’t last long, as Lestrade pulled into a lot filled with police cruisers not a minute later, and he quickly parked and turned off the engine. Without prompting, Sherlock opened his door and stepped out of the car, pulling his coat snugly around him and jamming his hands into his pockets as he walked alongside the DI towards the front doors of NSY. A presence quickly made itself known at his other side, and he fought back a smile as John found his place beside him, meeting him step for step.

The trio entered the building and Sherlock noticed John looking around the vast interior of the main lobby with barely-suppressed awe. The detective slowed his pace to walk just behind Lestrade, and John followed suit. “You’ll get used to it,” he murmured, just loud enough for John to hear, and his heart attempted to jump its way up his throat at the quirky grin John gave him as he responded:

“Will I? Does that mean this is going to be a regular thing?”

In answer, Sherlock just grinned, and the pair of them stayed silent as they followed Lestrade into a lift that took them up to the fifth floor.

Upon exiting the lift, Lestrade wordlessly led them down the hall and into a room. In the room sat a man at a computer, the blurry, low-quality footage of a security feed flickering across the monitor. The man turned around when Lestrade came in, and offered a weak smile. “Hey, Greg. I’ve got your perps,” he said, sliding the chair away from the computer and freezing the image on the screen.

Sure enough, when Sherlock approached the monitor alongside the DI, the face of Pavel was clearly visible where the man stood at the queue in the shop. He pursed his lips as he glanced at the timestamp in the corner: 11:52. “Identities were revealed yesterday in the evening,” Sherlock murmured, eyes scanning the screen. “A three-hour flight to Russia… if they  _did_ get a flight, they’re long-gone."

“Well, hold on,” John cut it, materialising seemingly out of nowhere at Sherlock’s shoulder, “we don’t know that. If they had a flight, it may have been booked for today.”

"If they did have a flight booked for today," Lestrade cut in, "they won't make it to the first gate. We've sent out their photos and aliases - since I doubt they're using their real names - to surrounding airports to make sure they're on every no-fly list anywhere near us."

Greg spoke confidently, but Sherlock's gut was heavy with a sinking feeling. He shook his head as he stood up straight, vacating the computer to scrub a hand over his face and wander over to lean against the closest wall, suddenly feeling lightheaded. “They would have wanted to leave the country as soon as possible. I’m surprised they even waited this long," he murmured to no one in particular. “A flight to Russia - most likely destination given ancestry, no stops… two one-way tickets… large amount of money given time restraint and potential luggage. Desperate to leave-” a breath left him in a slightly laboured puff as he pinched his eyes shut against the light in the room, which had suddenly grown brighter. His train of thought, verbalised, made little sense; even to him. What had he been saying? He peeled his eyes open to look at where the worker had resumed his position at the computer, joined by Greg, and he regretted the decision instantly.

All of a sudden, Sherlock’s vision swam as a wave of nausea crashed unexpectedly over him, a gasp leaving him as one hand shot out to brace himself against the wall as the world seemed to tip on its axis. John’s face, clouded with concern, came into his warped vision, and the man spoke words that Sherlock couldn’t quite make out. A sturdy hand took ahold of his arm, and Sherlock leaned into John’s body as the doctor moved to support him. Some words in Greg’s familiar timbre sounded from his left, and then John spoke.

 _“-hasn't been_  feeling well. He just needs some water. I’ll take care of him.”

Sherlock didn’t have the energy to protest as he was led carefully out of the small room and tugged down the hall. He only realised when he was pushed down into a plastic chair and told to “wait right here” how laboured his breathing had become. His chest rose and fell with the effort of each breath he took. The detective swallowed thickly as his mouth grew damp with the threat of impending sickness, and he closed his eyes against the world to focus his energy on steadying his breathing and settling his roiling stomach.

A distant voice gradually came back into focus. “Sherlock? Sherlock. Hey. Come now, look at me.”

Upon opening his eyes, Sherlock was met with the sight of his doctor kneeling before him, a paper cup of water in one hand, an orange bottle in the other, and a look of concern on his face.

“I should have known better than to allow you to run about like this only, what, three days into your withdrawal," the man said, his face betraying his guilt. Sherlock didn't have the energy to contest the ridiculous notion - he was focusing all of his efforts presently into  _not_  vomiting on John. "Figured it was a good idea to grab these,” the doctor continued, lightly rattling the bottle filled with pills with a small, wry smile, before handing the cup of water to Sherlock. “These will help with the nausea,” he explained, popping the cap off of the bottle and depositing two small tablets into one hand. "Here-” he made to hand them over, but paused when he noticed that Sherlock’s hand, holding the small cup, was shaking so violently that the water was in danger of sloshing over the sides. Pursing his lips, John stood, taking the water back from him. “Here,” he said, stepping closer to stand between Sherlock’s knees, as he raised the hand with the pills to the detective’s lips. “When you feel that you can, open your mouth,” he instructed gently.

Sherlock’s now-free hands found their way to John’s coat, gripping the fabric in quaking fists for something to hold onto, in hopes that maybe the anchor would stop his world spinning quite so violently. After puffing out a few more desperate breaths, he parted his lips and gave a small sound when John’s calloused fingers brushed against them, followed by the gentle impact of the two small pills on his tongue. Immediately after, the paper cup was pressed to his mouth and Sherlock felt a steadying hand gently cup the back of his head as the cup was tipped, and his mouth was flooded with cold fluid.

Thankfully, he was able to swallow the mouthful without incident, grimacing at the feeling of the pills sticking in the back of his throat. He made another small sound and was about to reach for the cup when it was once again pressed against his mouth, which opened greedily to quaff what was left of the water. Disoriented as he was, he found himself unable to ignore the warmth that radiated from the guiding hand resting at the back of his head, and from the body that stood so close to him. That heat was immediately and sorely missed when the man pulled away (but not before letting his fingers linger in the thick curls at the back of Sherlock’s head), taking the emptied cup with him.

“Another drink?” John asked, backing away, and Sherlock was forced to drop his hands from the man’s jacket. When his vision somewhat cleared, he watched the blond moving towards the water cooler on the other side of the small room. When he’d gotten his bearings back enough to respond, he swallowed thickly and, deciding against nodding his head for fear he would upset his already precarious balance, opted for a verbal response.

“Please,” he croaked out, unable to remember when his mouth had gone so dry. His head tipped back against the wall behind his chair, groaning when his head throbbed unpleasantly as a result of the mild contact. He listened to the soft sounds of the cup being refilled, followed shortly by John’s gentle footfalls on the threadbare carpet in an easy gait, before the man sat down in the chair next to him.

“Here,” the doctor said, and Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head just enough to take the water from John’s hand, now that his own weren’t shaking quite so violently. He offered a careful, silent nod of thanks before gently raising the cup to his lips to quench his thirst.

While he was taking tentative sips, John looked idly around the small break room that he’d led them to; there were a couple round tables surrounded by chairs and a bit of counter space lining one wall, upon which sat a coffee pot, an electric kettle, and various fixings for tea and coffee. Sherlock noticed when he looked across the room that John had put the electric kettle on while fetching his water.

“Making tea?” he asked after he’d swallowed, and John quirked a grin.

“Mm,” he confirmed with a subtle nod. “You said I could have tea later. It’s later.” The justification was accompanied by a mild shrug, and Sherlock couldn’t quite help the soft chuckle that bubbled up from his chest, however much it made his head ache.

“You’re not wrong.” Sherlock’s smile faded as a mild grimace contorted his features and a soft groan left his lips; he hadn’t anticipated the extent to which the full-bodied aches would plague and inhibit him as they did now. Headaches, he could deal with; but the sudden stiffness in his joints and muscles made him want to crawl into a comfortable bed under soft sheets and wait for the pain to pass. Maybe, he pondered idly, thoughts meandering back in time to how he’d spent the night and how he’d woken up, the presence of a strong, warm, sturdy body next to his own in the bed would be welcome; even ideal.

“You’re looking a bit flushed.” John’s observation brought the detective out of his reverie, and he fought the urge to blush deeper at being found out. At least, he thought, he could blame the heat in his cheeks on his malady, for now.

“I’m fine,” he assured, even as John’s hand bridged the gap between them to push the brunette’s inky curls off of his forehead, and replace them with his fingers, which were blissfully cool against what felt to Sherlock like blistering skin above his brow. Despite himself, he let out a sound dangerously close to a whimper at the touch, and, consequently, nearly spilled his water. The subtle taste of copper filled his mouth as his adrenaline spiked, and he could feel his own heartbeat tapping out a frantic, staccato rhythm against the inside of his ribcage. His mind raced as he attempted to identify the various callouses on John’s fingers against his forehead, and he imagined he could just make out the intricate, labyrinthine patterns of the individual ridges that made up his fingerprints. The intimacy of the thought sent his head spinning in a whole different way; and so lost he’d become in his musings, he missed the words which passed in a murmur from between John’s lips.

“Hm?” A wordless request for repetition.

“I said,” John began again, and Sherlock didn’t dare open his eyes for fear the sight of the fond smile he could assuredly hear in the older man’s words would send him into a swoon, “you’re  _feeling_ a bit warm, as well. Not quite a fever, but definitely warm.”

That wouldn't do, John thinking he was on the verge of obtaining a fever; he  _needed_  to solve this case. A day spent in John's flat, however pleasant it may have been, was a day wasted. Deciding he'd rather be found out than be confined to bedrest, Sherlock let out a slow, steady, fortifying breath. “I deeply appreciate your concern… but allow me to put your mind at ease by informing you that the heat has less to do with my affliction, and more to do with this proximity, as well as this physical contact.” He held his own breath, his heartbeat thudding in his ears in the silence. The doctor’s hand went eerily still and Sherlock could have  _sworn_  he felt a hitch in the man's pulse before the hand pulled away, much to Sherlock’s dismay; but it was followed by a voice so small Sherlock would have doubted it came from John at all, were the man not directly next to him.

“I’m- I’m sorry-” John began, clearly on the verge of a panic fueled by guilt, and Sherlock’s eyes blinked open to look at the other man with a frown.

“What are  _you_ sorry for?” he asked incredulously, and John looked at him, cheeks flushed out of embarrassment.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” the doctor answered, and opened his mouth to speak further, but Sherlock wouldn’t have it.

 

"I never said that," the detective countered.

"You didn't have to," John retorted, gesturing vaguely at Sherlock's face. "You're all red, and you've just said it's because of the contact," he said, looking horrified at himself.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and then shut them as the world spun. He grunted, grimacing in discomfort. "You're not making me uncomfortable. Far from it, actually," he grumbled. “You’re a doctor,” he continued, leaning his head back against the wall again, keeping his eyes closed. “Surely you understand the science and biology behind  _blushing._ ”

"The hell are you on about?" John asked.

Sherlock let out a hefty sigh. "Just humour me, John."

After a long few moments, John muttered a curse and shifted in his chair.“Fine. Adrenaline causes your blood vessels to dilate. Is that what you want to hear?” he asked, voice clipped with frustration and confusion.

Sherlock tipped his head to the side just so. “Correct, but you know this is reaction is not unique to physical discomfort alone."

John quirked a skeptical eyebrow. “So you’re… not uncomfortable.” The conclusion lacked confidence. Sherlock merely hummed in response.

“No.”

“What are you suggesting, then?”

As Sherlock opened his eyes and let his gaze fall upon John’s face again, he found it almost amusing that of course he would be attempting to explain the reason for his own physical responses in such a way, consulting biological factors as a way to avoid broaching the topic of  _feelings._ He shut his eyes again and turned his face towards the ceiling.

“A vasodilatory effect in the capillary beds of the face,  _flushing_ can be caused by more than mere embarrassment or discomfort,” he began. “You know this. Essentially part of the fight-or-flight response; when adrenaline is involved. I can determine from a brief self-analysis that my pulse has accelerated, my skin is warm to the touch, and I’d be willing to bet that an examination of my pupils under less harsh light would find them dilated. What conclusions can we draw from this?”

When he opened his eyes again, he found John looking at him as though he’d grown a second set of arms. The man was thoroughly discombobulated and thrown off-course by the directness with which Sherlock had addressed the situation and identified his own symptoms. This was probably getting a little too laborious, Sherlock thought, but they were too far into it now to back out of the conversation.

“Well,” the doctor started, clearly uneasy, “rather broad symptoms, really. Could be intoxication, general anxiety disorder, or hyperthyroidism, for all I know.”

“John,” Sherlock admonished with a sigh, closing his eyes again.

“Intoxication would be top of my list, but I know you’ve not taken anything,” John said. “Other than that… embarrassment…”

“...Or?”

“.....Well, I know it’s not-”

“-come out with it, John.”

“I mean-" he huffed "-arousal is the last thing I’d think of, seeing as we’re in a fucking break room at New Scotland Yard,” the man mumbled, and Sherlock couldn’t help but snort in amusement.

“There are  _certain physical characteristics_ of arousal that I am not currently experiencing,” he said, bluntly but carefully, “but that’s certainly a closer answer than embarrassment or discomfort.” He paused a moment, opening his eyes to look at the ceiling. “Well, actually, embarrassment likely plays a role, no matter how unfounded.” He’d meant to throw John a wry sort of grin, but when he looked at the doctor again, John was frozen, eyes wide and unblinking with shock, cheeks ruddy, and Sherlock’s brow furrowed in slight worry. “What’s wrong?”

“What are you saying?” John all but breathed, and he looked  _frightened._ Sherlock would roll his eyes again if he weren’t feeling a bit petrified, himself; it would seem that he was simply better at not showing it.

The detective pursed his lips as he silently contemplated for a long moment before, resignedly, coming to what seemed to him to be the best conclusion. Because of course; of  _course_  it had been foolish of him to broach the topic. Here, of all places. In a break room with the door propped open. And in the way he had broached it; John was a hopeless romantic (he owned  _romance novels_ , for Christ's sake), he would have wanted a candle-lit dinner and a heartfelt proclamation and two glasses of wine; not this. Not this; a crash-course on the sympathetic nervous system, too calculating and too convoluted and just wrong, wrong, it was all  _wrong-_ “Perhaps I shouldn’t elaborate any further," the brunette decided. "As it is, it looks as though you’re about to faint, and I actually feel much better working on this case with you nearby. So in the interest of preserving what professionalism is left-”

“Sherlock.” John stopped him, sounding as exasperated as he looked. “Preserving professionalism is no excuse; we’re long past that,” he continued, lowering the volume of his voice in the event that anyone should pass by the small room and hear this quite frankly absurd discussion, “we shared a  _bed_ last night, for fuck’s sake.” The man’s cheeks grew impossibly more flushed at the verbalisation. “We basically  _cuddled_ , and  _you_ were the one saying that professionalism was no longer an issue, seeing as you’re no longer my patient, by your standards.” He huffed, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as though he was staving off a massive migraine.

“And  _you_ said it was  _‘all fine’,_ ” Sherlock countered lowly.

John huffed again, hands falling and clapping against his own jean-clad thighs. “And it  _is,"_  he stressed.

“Then I fail to see what the issue is-”

“The issue is,” John interjected, “that I-" he paused a moment, and wet his lips. "I have a good feeling of what’s going on. But I need for you to actually say it.”

Mildly startled, Sherlock took a moment to search John’s eyes, sapphire, stern, carefully guarded; but not carefully enough, as Sherlock spotted something in them that looked precariously close to  _hope._ “Do you want me to say that I’m attracted to you?” he asked on a breath, a sight less self-assured than he’d intended it to be.

Something in John’s eyes shifted at the question. “Are you?” he asked cautiously in return, and Sherlock could hardly breathe. He looked away.

“I might be,” he said, as indifferently as possible, receiving a wordless grumble in response.

“For  _fuck’s_ sake, Sherlock.” Sherlock could hear John’s hands scrubbing over his face. “I am  _twenty-nine years of age._  Just fucking  _tell me._  I don’t need to be blushing like a fucking schoolgirl talking to a lad she fancies.”

“You’ve rather shown your hand there,” Sherlock quipped, unable to stop the grin that tugged at the corners of his lips. He heard John’s intake of breath - the man was likely close to an aggravated outburst - but he must have caught sight of the smile on Sherlock’s face, because the air escaped him in a puff before he let out a dry, soft chuckle.

“Guess I have,” John mumbled, and Sherlock took the opportunity to turn his head once more to glance at the older man. The roses of their cheeks were matching shades of crimson, and Sherlock’s quirky grin prompted a shy counterpart to blossom on John’s face. Something in Sherlock’s chest tightened and relaxed in tandem; he didn’t normally do these things. He had no experience in this. He knew enough to know this wasn’t typical, shedding light on the existence of affections past the platonic realm in a small break room in a police station with someone who used to sort of be your therapist. However, while the setting and timing of it all was rather unorthodox and probably a bit not-ideal for the average person, Sherlock found he didn’t mind in the slightest.

They were both silent for a few long moments, before John cleared his throat and, smiling shyly, began to speak. “So-”

It was at that moment that Lestrade, with his infuriatingly impeccable timing, chose to round the corner in a flurry, his chocolate eyes bordering on frantic as he clutched a police radio in his hand close to his face. A series of numbers crackled through the small device in muffled tones. “Copy, on our way,” the DI said, before looking between the two men. “There’s been another robbery. I have to go; Sherlock? Are you well enough to come with?"

Thinking quickly, Sherlock donned a weary expression, slumping where he sat, head falling back against the wall once more as he took a laboured breath. “I don’t think so-” he could see John’s look of mild confusion out of the corner of his eye “-I think I need to go home and lie down. Text me with any findings,” he said in lieu of a dismissal, and watched Lestrade set his jaw, nod once, and give a wave of farewell to John before joining a group of uniformed officers sweeping down the hall towards the lifts and the stairs. As soon as they were out of sight, Sherlock dropped the act, eyes hardening as he sat up straight and pulled out his mobile.

“I thought you were feeling better,” John said.

“I am feeling better,” Sherlock murmured as he typed out a quick message to a number saved under the contact name  _Billy:_

_PP20M -W_

He stuffed his phone into his pocket and stood up; but the action sent his head swimming once more and he swayed on his feet. Thankfully, he was stabilised not a moment later by a pair of strong hands; one grasping his arm, the other pressed solidly to the small of his back.

“You’re sure about that?” Sherlock didn’t have to look to see the smug smirk on John’s face.

He scowled. “I’m  _fine,_ ” he bit out, shrugging John’s hand off of him as he left the room and made for the lifts where a fleet of officers had been mere moments before.

"Where are you going?" John called from behind him, seemingly in distress; and Sherlock realised the reason for the distress a moment later when he heard the distant  _click_  of the electric kettle being switched off.

"We're leaving," he answered over his shoulder as the doctor hurried to catch up with him.

Looking a touch sour for being pulled away from his tea for a second time that day - because apparently John Watson  _ran_  on tea - John sidled up next to Sherlock in front of the lifts and crossed his arms. "I'll hazard a guess and say we're  _not_  going back to my flat," he mumbled.

“You’ve guessed correctly.” Sherlock grinned as a soft  _ding_ announced the lifts’ arrival, and the pair stepped in, John rolling his eyes as he did so, before the doors shut. They were deposited on the ground floor of the building and Sherlock, wasting no time, took long, decisive steps - one to John’s every two, he noticed with a smirk - to cover the distance to the front door, and once outside, practically ran to the kerb and threw his arm in the air. Not a moment later, a black car pulled up to the kerb, and John let out a laugh of disbelief.

“I swear, you’ve magic cab-hailing powers.”

Sherlock smiled as he pulled the back door open and climbed inside, scooting over to make room for John, who climbed in after him and shut the door. “As close to Battersea Park as you can get,” the detective told the cab driver, who pulled away from the kerb and melded seamlessly with the late-afternoon London traffic.

“Battersea?” John asked, and Sherlock hummed.

“I’ve a contact,” he explained. “In the days leading up to my imprisonment at your flat-” he ignored the frown that was cast his way “-I was doing some _legwork_ and managed to narrow down approximately where our elusive gang’s headquarters are located.”

“I thought they were out of the country,” John said.

Sherlock tipped his head. “Potentially two of the members are out of the country. But there’s been another robbery; one that sent nearly half the bloody police force - you saw how many officers were rushing down the hall. Likely a rather significant heist. Pavel and Matvei weren’t the only members of the gang, that much is certain. So even if Pavel and Matvei  _are_ out of the country, there’s a potential for us finding at least  _someone_ of importance where we’re headed.”

“Where we’re headed; Battersea Park. They’re... stationed in Battersea Park?” John asked incredulously, nose scrunching adorably to display the doctor's lack of comprehension.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not exactly; somewhere near there, though. There’s an old factory outlet just east of it, and I have a suspicion that’s where they’re located. We’re going to meet someone who can give us more information.”

At that moment, his mobile pinged in his hand, and as he unlocked it and read the message that had come through, he smiled beamingly. “We’re in luck,” he said cheerfully, “it would appear that our contact has answers.”

When met with John’s befuddled expression, Sherlock chuckled lowly before having mercy on the man and holding out his mobile for John to see the screen. The doctor squinted at the small series of digits and numbers.

 _“P-P-D-1-5-M?”_ he asked, looking back to Sherlock. “That’s… Unnecessarily cryptic,” he decided with a frown, glancing back to Sherlock, clearly expecting an explanation.

Sherlock affected a withering look. “It’s just cryptic enough for those of us who’d rather not have  _Big Brother_ breathing down our necks. Literally,” he added in a mumble, the corner of his lips turning upwards in a smirk at the snort of laughter that emanated from the man at the other end of the back seat.

The fifteen-minute ride from New Scotland Yard to Battersea Park elapsed faster than Sherlock had anticipated; but, eager as he was, he hardly waited for the cab to come to a stop next to the kerb before he threw the door open and all but leapt out of the taxi, breaking into a purposeful stride across the pavement towards the park, much to the dismay of John if the startled noise of disapproval behind him was anything to go by. A few short moments later and the quick rhythm of John’s trainers falling against the pavement neared him as the man jogged to catch up.

“Leaving me to pay for the cab then?” the doctor groused, and Sherlock smirked.

“I’ll reimburse you.  _And_  I'll get you tea, since you've been waiting oh so patiently all day for it," he teased.

That earned a dubious noise from the blond as the pair fell into stride together and quickly crossed the distance to the park - and then kept going.

“So,” John started - Sherlock could hear the man’s hands fidgeting inside his pockets - “before we were interrupted back there-”

“John, we are almost certainly walking into the midst of a very dangerous bunch of people -  _murderers -_ and you’re opting to fixate on whether or not I’m attracted to you?” Sherlock asked, aiming for incredulous, but failing to keep the smile out of his voice.

“Can you really blame me?” John asked, and Sherlock huffed a short laugh and shook his head.

“I’m beginning to suspect that this has less to do with assuaging your doubts, and more to do with stroking your ego.”

John laughed at that, prompting Sherlock to smile.

“Have you got a tenner?”

The non-sequitur halted John’s laugh immediately. “What?”

“A tenner. Have you got one?” They rounded a corner and headed in the direction of the walkway running along the Thames, as John huffed indignantly and fisted his pocket.

“You left me to pay for the bloody cab, and now you’re asking for a tenner? I didn’t realise my sole purpose on this excursion was to cover your arbitrary expenditures,” the man argued, even as he pulled out his wallet and rifled through the small number of bills tucked away inside. He extracted a ten pound note and held it out in Sherlock’s direction, which the detective took and pocketed quickly. “Mind telling me what the fuck that’s for?”

“You’ll see,” Sherlock promised as they approached the walkway and turned West.

The sun, already beginning to set over the city, cast a warm, orange glow over the River Thames, which shimmered as the deep moss of the water mingled with shades of fiery orange and crimson, while a more mellow apricot and hints of gold danced among the other colours to paint a beautiful tableau that, once upon a time, long ago when Sherlock had first been brought to the city for holiday as a young boy, he’d marveled at.

A glance to his left showed the same colours, predominantly orange, casting a soft glow over John’s face as the shorter man gazed at the scene. Maybe one day, he thought, he could fulfill what John would likely be more inclined to enjoy; a candle-lit dinner and two glasses of wine next to a window overlooking the Thames at sunset. Maybe then John could help him once again see the beauty in the city that, up until his first appointment with the man those weeks ago, didn't seem like it had much to offer him anymore. Or maybe, if John would allow it, Sherlock could study the world from a different perspective, observing how the different hues of red and orange and yellow reflected off of the water to paint John's skin the colours of warmth and comfort.

However pleasant and intriguing the concept, Sherlock pushed his thoughts aside for the time being, and his focus narrowed on the structure that loomed before them in the distance; painted white with intricate architecture and a black roof of a distinct style.

“John,” he summoned, “you remember the text I showed you?”

“What?” John tore his eyes from the river to look up at Sherlock. “Oh. Yeah. What was it- P-P-D… 15?”

“15-M,” Sherlock corrected. “It was a location and a time.”

John frowned at looked forward, mumbling the letters to himself, but a moment later, as his eyes fell upon the monument they were nearing, he gasped softly in realisation. “Oh! The Peace Pagoda.”

Sherlock smiled. “Very good.”

Their footsteps slowed as they came to stand before the monument; there were a few people around, milling about, chatting near the railing at the edge of the pavement overlooking the river, pausing on their bikes to take in the sights, sitting on benches. Sherlock gazed up the short set of stairs to where a gilt-bronze statue immortalized Buddha.

“So P-P is Peace Pagoda,” John continued beside him, looking up at the statue which glinted in the light of the setting sun, “but what’s the rest of it? D?” he questioned, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

The detective took in a breath and strode forward, up the stairs, and John followed. “These bronze statues,” he began, “represent significant stages in Buddha’s life. Birth,” he said, nodding at the statue they stood in front of before turning and making his way around the pagoda, “contemplation and enlightenment,” he continued as they passed the second statue, “teaching;” the third, and finally, they came to stand before a bronze rendering of the figure in the previous three lying on a bed. “And death.”

John was silent a moment, standing beside Sherlock and looking at the statue, before turning his attention to the detective. “Are you… Buddhist?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly,” he murmured, and turned around to see a young boy in rather tattered clothing, face marred with a smudge of dirt, ratty, dirty blond hair shoulder length and looking in desperate need of a wash, sitting on the bottom step of the pagoda with a cup in his small hands. Giving a small smile, Sherlock made his way down the first few steps, and hopped down the last two, and ignored John’s curious eyes as he approached the young boy.

“Any spare change, Sir?” the young lad asked, looking up at Sherlock with overdramatic sweetness, his large brown eyes giving a pleading look.

Grinning, Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets. “Down on your luck?” he asked pleasantly.

“No more than you,” the small boy countered, his innocent expression vanishing as a smirk played at his lips.

Sherlock huffed a soft laugh. “Fair enough.” He could see John’s puzzlement at the strange exchange out of the corner of his eye as he reached to put the folded up ten-pound note into the boy’s cup, but put his hand in further than strictly necessary, fingers grasping the edge of a folded up piece of paper before pulling back, the sleight-of-hand not going unnoticed by John, who looked between him and the beggar boy startledly.

“Ta very much, Sir,” the child chirped gratefully, and Sherlock nodded as he stepped away.

“Thank  _you._ Come along, John,” he called over his shoulder, and the doctor scampered to catch up with him as they made their way away from the pagoda and onto the pavement that ran alongside the river. It was there that Sherlock extracted the small note from his pocket and looked over its contents written in the hasty, uncoordinated scrawl of a child, smiling both out of fondness and satisfaction.

“You going to explain what that was?” John asked quietly from where he walked alongside him.

“PPD15M,” Sherlock recited, “Peace Pagoda, Death, fifteen minutes.”

“...Oh,” John said with a frown. “That… makes sense.”

Sherlock snorted. “Not as complicated as you thought.”

“I suppose not,” John hummed, and then looked curiously at the small bit of paper in Sherlock’s hands. “What’s that, then?”

“Our location,” the brunette explained. “East Red #2 from left. Blue ladder,” he read, and then hummed in satisfaction as he stuffed the note back into his pocket. “Young Billy has outdone himself.” His pride was evident in his tone and in his smile.

“Wait,  _that_ was your contact? Your scout? He’s a  _child_ ,” John exclaimed, though thankfully in hushed tones so as to not draw attention.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He’s more than capable of handling himself, John. And it’s not as though he isn’t compensated well. That ten quid was a down-payment. He’ll collect the rest later.”

“So you do this often, do you?" John asked, sounding almost accusatory and certainly not chuffed. "You two seemed acquainted. And you talk in code. This isn’t a first-time deal.”

“Astute observation,” the younger man drawled dryly. “It pays to be acquainted with people from all walks of life. Most people walk by the less fortunate every day without sparing them a second glance, let alone a bit of cash. It’s amazing what people with nothing will do for even meager compensation.”

“Wait- is he  _homeless?_ ” John asked, growing more distraught with each word that left Sherlock’s mouth. “Jesus Christ, you’re  _exploiting_ these people’s misfortunes for your own gain-”

“John,” Sherlock admonished, “while I’m certainly lacking in the social graces, I’m not that insensitive. I’ve given dozens of people around this city a steady income and a mobile phone to communicate with me. I’ve dipped into my trust fund with the approval of my brother to assist many of them; Billy’s family of four, for instance, is now situated nicely in a two-bedroom flat not ten minutes from here. It may not seem like much, but it’s a far sight better than the bridge they were staying under a couple summers ago. And I’ve let them all know that as long as they are under my employ, I will do anything in my power to not let harm come to them, I will not put them in a situation where they are in grave danger if I can help it, and they may text me if they are in dire need of assistance with a financial matter which I have reserved for extreme medical circumstances. Believe me, I don’t believe in taking advantage of people’s misfortunes. I’m not quite that heartless.”

The silence that followed worried Sherlock to the point where he almost stopped walking to further try to convince John that what he was doing wasn’t horrible, that it was mutually beneficial; but it was actually John’s voice which ended up stopping him in his tracks.

“You’re incredible,” the man said, voice soft, and Sherlock, stunned, stopped walking and turned to face the other, whose face was an open book, filled with as much wonder and admiration as his words had been. “That’s… incredible. You fixed them up with a flat?”

Sherlock blinked a few times in quick succession. “I- yes,” he affirmed. “It was the least I could do. His mother is a lovely woman. She helped me collect information on a school administrator who was embezzling funds a couple years back. And his brother is quite adept with a lockpick, he-”

His voice cut off into a surprised sound when a pair of tanned hands grasped the lapels of his wool coat and tugged, causing Sherlock to stumble forward, his hands colliding with John’s chest in a futile attempt to stabilise himself, and he hadn’t even a moment to process exactly what was happening before his mouth was covered by John’s.

It was brief; hardly a magical moment like in the films, where fireworks go off in the distance while a ninety-piece orchestra swells to a climactic fortissimo; there were no sighs of passion or declarations. What there  _was_ , however, was a chaste, sweet press of dry, slightly-chapped lips against another set in a similar state, the kiss innocent yet somehow loaded with an impossible amount of things left unsaid and promises that had yet to be made and fulfilled. It was a move born of a sudden influx of adoration with a hint of yearning; and it was over all too quickly.

The soft sounds of crickets in the park and the light babbling of the effervescent river behind them and the distant chime of a bell on a bike took the place of the symphony orchestra, but these sounds were no match for the thunderous pounding of Sherlock’s heart in his own ears combined with the soft breaths that left John’s mouth when they separated, their faces scant inches apart, John’s hands still fisted in Sherlock’s coat while Sherlock’s were still pressed against the fabric of the jacket covering John’s chest.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide as he looked between John’s, lips parted just so in surprise at the sight of John’s pupils nearly eclipsing the royal blue of his irises. His gaze darted down to John’s mouth -  _which had been pressed against his own mere moments ago, he remembered dazedly_ \- when the man’s lips parted and the soft, pink tip of his tongue appeared to quickly moisten his lips.

“Sorry,” John breathed. He sounded anything but sorry.

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said, and blinked a few times, before letting himself grin slowly.

“That was, um.” John huffed a gentle laugh and hastily unclenched his hands from Sherlock’s coat when he realised he was still gripping it. “That was probably bad timing.”

Smiling wider, Sherlock took his hands away from John’s chest, with a little reluctance, and took a minuscule step back. “While I’m inclined to agree,” he began, glancing around them where they stood, in the middle of the walkway, on their way to potentially infiltrate a dangerous gang’s headquarters, “I’m not exactly complaining. Though I hope you didn't do it simply because you've discovered I'm charitable."

John laughed, an adorable, genuine, high-pitched, giggling thing that had Sherlock’s stomach doing flips. “No, no. I did it because- because you're lovely." His cheeks flushed profoundly as he gave the compliment. "And I'm glad you're not complaining. I’d hate for you to complain about it.” His breathing evened out as his laughter died, and after another moment of letting his eyes trail over Sherlock's face, the doctor cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “We should probably…-”

“-Yeah,” Sherlock agreed, not entirely knowing what he was agreeing to, and he cleared his own throat as John looked up at him with a coy grin. “We should… Um.”

“.... Go and catch some killers?” John supplied, grin broadening as his amusement with Sherlock’s flustered state grew.

“Yes. That,” Sherlock agreed with a nod. “Ah. Yes. East. This way.” He gave another stunted nod and turned to resume his stride down the pavement, and despite the fluttery feelings in his chest and stomach, he found himself growing more confident and more focused with each step, and he smiled unabashedly when he heard John’s laughter from behind him as the man moved to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys are FINALLY ON THE SAME PAGE. I'm as relieved as you are (probably more relieved, to be honest).
> 
> What will happen next?? Tune in next time to find out! I'll see you lovely lot then. ;)
> 
> Until then, all my love and my sincerest thanks to you all. And if you'd like a little something to tide you over until then, if you're at all interested, I whipped up a little 3 chapter, 21,700 word something called Allhallows' Affair for the Halloween holiday that I'm pretty proud of. Go and give it a read, if you'd like!
> 
> Huge thanks once again (I'm doing a lot of thanking, just bear with me) to everyone whose given this fic a read. Thank you thank you thank you. I hope to see you back for future updates. <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not intimate with London's anatomy. All of my info is coming from Google Earth and the internet, and I am definitely taking some liberties with it to fulfill my agenda, so don't hate me for my inaccuracies.
> 
> I hope you all had a great week (Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends), and I hope you've had a fantastic start to your weekend! Now go, read, and enjoy!

In retrospect, John probably shouldn’t ever have assumed that a day which began with him waking up in bed next to Sherlock Holmes would be anything at all akin to a normal day. In fact, John reckoned that a life which involved Sherlock Holmes in any capacity was a far cry from normal. Not that he was complaining, per se; he just hadn’t expected to go from cuddling under his duvet to sitting in the back of a police cruiser in a matter of about twenty minutes.

And then came the developments in his and Sherlock’s relationship.

The past couple of days had been eventful in that regard, though John had resolutely attributed the overabundance of physical contact between them to the fact that Sherlock was ill and in need of comfort. Whether it was because of guilt, or some desperate attempt to retain a facade of professionalism, John had done his best to abstain from any thoughts that could be considered even mildly inappropriate, given the fact that Sherlock was his patient. And then Sherlock had come out with the bit about _not_ actually being his patient, effectively removing himself from the programme, which tilted John’s world on its axis. He’d done it so John wouldn’t fret about the sleeping situation after Sherlock had dragged him into the bed with him. And what was John supposed to make of that?

All of the instances, when isolated, could be dismissed easily; a brush of fingers here, a shared look there. Mere happenstance. But when John stood back and looked at the big picture, he could hardly believe he’d ever had a doubt in the first place.

But isn’t that what they always say? Hindsight is 20/20?

It was this newfound lack of doubt that aided in prompting John to cross the threshold from verbal confirmations and subtle touches to something a bit more substantial. It’d been a split-second decision that John really hadn’t even thought about. One moment he was nearly seething at the prospect of Sherlock having homeless children do his bidding for scraps; and the next moment his heart was swelling almost painfully in his chest because Sherlock was the _definition_ of generosity and he couldn’t imagine he’d ever doubted the morality of the genius before him in the first place. And then he’d acted on impulse - and it was very likely something that had been building for days or even weeks - and he’d kissed him.

He’d kissed Sherlock Holmes.

And that, in that moment, felt like a bigger achievement than all of his degrees and war medals hanging neatly on the wall of his office combined.

If John had previously let himself imagine what a first kiss with Sherlock would be like, there would have been a lot more pomp involved; he was a romantic by default, and while he knew that things in real life didn’t happen quite how they did in films, his imagination always wishfully added in those little nuances that were essential to his favourite love-themed stories.

What the kiss lacked in classic Hollywood panache, it more than made up for in other respects; where the colourful bursts of fireworks lighting the early evening sky were notably absent, the feeling of Sherlock’s large hands pressed to his chest was solid and grounding; the soft sound of Sherlock’s surprised intake of breath when their lips met replaced the classic orchestral soundtrack; and while there was no fantastical verbal declaration of long-harboured love, the awe-struck look in Sherlock’s stormy, ocean-grey eyes was unscripted and genuine and _real_ , and it was all John needed to reassure himself that he wasn’t alone in what he felt.

And what he felt was intense. He was hesitant to put a proper name to it, for fear he would mislabel it and call it something too big too soon; and he wasn’t sure who he was more in danger of spooking with that sort of declaration; Sherlock, or himself. 

Thankfully, it seemed that any and all thoughts of future romantic entanglements were destined to be put on the metaphorical back-burner, because as John jogged to catch up with Sherlock’s long strides and caught a glimpse of the side of the man’s face, he found the smile he’d been wearing replaced by a look of set determination. John had a harder time quelling his own smile, but he knew that the tampering down of their emotions was necessary; they were heading into a potentially dangerous situation, and couldn’t afford to be distracted by whatever was growing between them. Their relationship could wait.

John followed eagerly, close to Sherlock’s side as the taller man led them both down the pavement, under a bridge, and then, suddenly, off to the right and over the railing at the edge of the sidewalk. The blond took a moment to envy Sherlock’s long legs, allowing the man to do little more than step over the railing, while John had to brace one hand on the metal bar and hop over it as gracefully as he could – but not before looking anxiously over his shoulder to be sure no one was watching them scurry off the paved path.

“Aren’t you worried about anyone seeing us?” he asked in a stage whisper as he hurried to walk alongside the detective once more, noting how Sherlock’s eyes scanned only the area ahead of them as the ground they walked on turned from dirt to gravel. John’s eyes, in contrast, scanned the lamp-lit path that was steadily receding behind them.

“If anyone were to ask,” Sherlock said as he stepped onto a rather large slab of concrete and surveyed the dark, mostly-vacant lot before them, “which I doubt they would, it wouldn’t be difficult to convince them that the pair of us had buggered off somewhere away from prying eyes for a snog.” The man turned around, a small smirk on his face as he reached a hand out to help John onto the concrete slab. John, cheeks colouring lightly at the comment – and at the truth of it – reached up to grasp the proffered hand gratefully, and was hauled up onto the concrete shelf. He returned the smile and gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze before letting it fall from his grip.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind using that as a quick cover if someone were to round the corner unexpectedly.” He chuckled and watched on with unbridled adoration as Sherlock’s head dipped in an attempt to quell the grin conquering his lips. He didn’t move from where he stood on the slab next to John, but the doctor’s smile softened when he watched the man’s shoulders rise and fall with a breath.

“John,” he addressed, the warm, smooth baritone curling around John’s name like the most luxurious pashmina scarf. “I don’t wish to come across as callous, but… for the next couple of hours, or however long it takes us to get anywhere on this case, I’d like to put our personal relationship at the back of my mind. I cannot have my focus clouded by-“

“-Sherlock,” John interjected, hand rising to gently grasp Sherlock’s arm – but he decided against it at the last moment, instead flexing his fingers and letting his hand fall to his side again in an awkward, loose fist. “I understand. Completely. We’ve got all the time in the world to explore- _this,_ ” he swished his hand through the air in the space between them in an attempt to clarify his point without verbalizing the specifics. “What matters now, is doing what we can to help the police. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch someone doing something they ought to not be doing.” The ex-soldier offered a small smile and a shrug, earning the smallest, sweetest of smiles from Sherlock as a result. "But yes. I understand. This, the case, comes first. Absolutely."

“Thank you,” the brunette said quietly, and, seemingly as an afterthought, brought his own pale hand up to wrap his spindly fingers around John’s wrist to give an affectionate squeeze before quickly retreating, leaving John’s skin tingling in its absence.

The doctor gave a hum in response before taking a breath. “Shall we, then?” he asked, and swung his leg forward to hop down off of the concrete slab and into the gravel lot. “What did that note say?” He strolled forward a few steps, eyes narrowing at the neat line of four narrow warehouses a fair distance ahead, each covered with weathered, red paint. “Number two? Something about a ladder?”

Sherlock leapt off of the concrete slab and swept past him, the tightly-packed gravel crunching under his posh Yves Saint Laurents as he walked, and John quickly met the taller man’s stride as they made their way towards the warehouses. “Second one from the left,” he confirmed with a nod in the direction of the warehouse in question. “We’ll check for the blue ladder before we break in.” The final comment was so offhanded that John nearly missed it. But when the statement registered, John’s eyes widened before he huffed out a breath and shook his head.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he murmured. “S’pose we’re not just going to _waltz_ into a gang hideout.”

Sherlock snorted, but then the pair fell silent as they neared the first of the warehouses to walk nearly pressed against the back wall. The brunette’s steps slowed, and John followed suit, staying close behind. His hands quickly, instinctively, moved round to his own back to swiftly unsheathe his gun from its hiding spot, nestled against the small of his back, and his thumb hovered over the safety as he held it in both hands in front of him – just in case. The feeling of the metal, heavy and solid in his hands, brought with it a rush of adrenaline that he hadn’t realized he’d missed as much as he had. His head was spinning with it, and the faintest of dark smiles lifted the corner of his lips as he basked in the rush.

He felt _alive_ ; and they’d only just begun their work here.

“There’s a door,” Sherlock murmured quietly from where he was peeking around the corner, looking at the side of the second warehouse. “I’ll climb atop that large bin and look in the window to be sure there’s no one inside, and we’ll go from there-“ the man paused in his running commentary when he looked back, and John blinked at the sudden lapse in the detective’s speech, followed by the pair of quicksilver eyes that swept over him and fixed on a spot near his abdomen. A moment later and John realised Sherlock was looking at his gun. He anxiously wet his lips.

“You- told me to bring it,” he murmured, starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake in pulling it from its hiding spot too soon, but he was assuaged by a brief shake of Sherlock’s curly head.

“No,” the man said, voice pitched a little higher than normal, before he cleared his throat. “I just wasn’t exactly prepared for- for how unfairly, overwhelmingly attractive the sight of you holding a gun would be.”

John’s lips stretched into an enamoured and very pleased smile as Sherlock’s cheeks heated, and the doctor took the smallest of steps closer. “I thought we were saving this sort of talk for later,” he said, pitching his voice lower and into an almost-purr, reveling in the heat that visibly crept up Sherlock’s neck.

“I can hardly be blamed,” the younger man said, affecting an annoyed expression and giving a half-hearted scoff, and John just chuckled quietly again while Sherlock turned his attention back to the space between the two warehouses. “Anyway,” he continued dismissively in a whisper, and carefully, quietly, stepped around the corner.

John followed as quietly as he could, rolling the rubber soles of his trainers from heel to toe with each step across the gravel to keep from making too much noise. His gun was gripped in both hands as he rounded the corner, and his eyes were immediately drawn to a metal ladder with chipped blue paint lying on its side, leaning up against the wall. The doctor came to stand next to Sherlock, who was looming next to a large, industrial, metal rubbish bin that was pressed against the wall under a high window. One of the hinged plastic lids was propped open with what looked to be scrap metal, broken plastic, and bits of rusty scaffolding. Sherlock was laying his gloved hands – when had he put gloves on? – on the closed lid, appearing to gauge its sturdiness. “Need a boost?” John asked on a breath, tucking his gun back into the waistband of his jeans and lacing the fingers of both hands together, palm up, before half-kneeling beside Sherlock. The man looked at him with an expression of surprise before giving a smile of gratitude, wordlessly accepting the offer with a silent nod. The doctor braced himself as a gloved, long-fingered hand gently gripped his shoulder and one black shoe that probably cost more than his fucking rent slotted neatly into the platform his palms provided, and with one smooth heave, Sherlock was on top of the bin, steadying himself with one hand against the metal wall of the warehouse, and John was standing and brushing little bits of gravel from his hands.

As the doctor watched, Sherlock shifted his weight on the thick plastic lid so his feet were nearest the sides of the bin itself for a bit of added support, before he stood up to nearly his full height, to peek cautiously through the small window partway up the tall wall. Meanwhile, John had once again drawn his gun, and was stood perfectly still in the space between the two warehouses, barely large enough for a car and lit only by the lights of the nearby park and the dim fluorescent bulbs that were on the fronts of the warehouses whose glows spilled partway into the space between them. The sun was almost entirely set, and John knew they wouldn’t get much assistance from the stars and moon, considering the light-pollution of the city. This was as good as it was going to get, unless they used torches.

His train of thought was disrupted by the noise of one of Sherlock’s shoes shifting against the plastic lid of the bin, and John moved to offer a hand – which Sherlock took without hesitation – to help the man down. With the agility of a large cat, Sherlock leapt down, feet barely making a sound when they made contact with the gravel, black coat billowing dramatically around him before he stood to his full height, releasing John’s hand and looking back at the building he’d just peered into.

“Vacant,” he whispered, and John nodded, watching as the detective made a bee-line for the door which stood a few metres away. Predictably, when the brunette tried the doorknob, he was met with resistance. John expected the slight frown that adorned the man’s face, but he was caught off-guard when Sherlock dropped elegantly to his knees in front of the door, one hand producing something wrapped in dark fabric seemingly out of thin air.

“What’s that?” John asked softly as he shifted closer to peer over Sherlock’s shoulder, catching sight of the glint of clean metal in what little light there was.

After a brief period of shuffling between the items in Sherlock’s hands, the man spoke. “Lockpick set,” he said, and turned on a small torch with a quiet _click_ , before sticking the end of it in his mouth to hold it steady. As an afterthought, though, he removed it from between his lips and looked up and back at John. “Keep watch, will you?” he asked, before the torch was in his mouth again, pointed at the doorknob, and both his hands, each wielding a metal tool, began their assault on the keyhole.

Nodding silently, John crossed the few paces between the door and the front corner of the warehouse, and dared to peek around the edge.

To his right, across the bridge they’d walked under, was Battersea Park and the surrounding area. To his back, he knew, lay the Thames, and the path they’d come from. Before him and to his left, was the rest of the gravel lot. There was what appeared to be a large factory of sorts – or a power-plant – that may or may not have been abandoned. He couldn’t be sure. But there were bits of equipment here and there, from what he could tell; piles of rubble and stacks of metal beams and a few pieces of machinery. What the expansive lot lacked was people, and cars. He wondered briefly at how close to civilization the place was; granted, people weren’t likely to start wandering around what may very well be a power-plant/construction site, but he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if a pair of young adults _did_ sneak away from the path running along the Thames, searching for a place away from prying eyes to snog and fool around. What if they just _happened_ to seek refuge in a warehouse where bank-robbers liked to hang out?

He wasn’t given time to ruminate on the possibilities, his imagination snuffed by two white lights drawing his focus to the other end of the lot where a car had pulled in off the main road. His eyes narrowed, expecting the vehicle to pull off somewhere; but after a few moments, he realized it was heading straight for him.

“Sherlock?” he summoned quietly as the sounds of tires crunching against gravel grew nearer, and he chanced a glance over his shoulder to see Sherlock still faffing about with the fucking doorknob. His heartbeat grew louder in his ears and his hands tightened around his gun when he looked back to see the car had crossed more distance than he’d anticipated. “Sherlock.” He took the smallest step back with one foot, though he kept his eyes on the car, not daring to run until he heard Sherlock direct him to do so. But _fuck_ , it was down to the wire – the car would arrive at the mouth of the gap between the two warehouses they stood between in a matter of _seconds._ He tried once more – “Sherlock, we _really_ have to- wha-!” His breath was knocked from him as a hand roughly grasped the back of the collar of his jacket and tugged with a surprising amount of force. John wasn’t given time to regain his bearings before he was plunged into darkness. The slam of the door he’d been pulled through was followed by the gentle click of the lock, and then a squeal of tires and the crunch of gravel on the other side of it.

Four car doors opened and slammed shut in tandem and a series of voices John couldn’t make out accompanied the sounds of feet hitting the ground. He could just barely make out the sounds of a set of keys jingling through his panic when he was tugged by the arm, and he turned to find the circular beam of Sherlock’s small torch flying frantically around the vast space of the inside of the warehouse. Just as a pair of feet plodded around the ground just on the other side of the door and a clumsy hand fumbled with the doorknob, the doctor was pulled roughly around and to the ground. He landed on his arse pressed close to Sherlock, and looked to see the man’s torch turn off just as the door they’d come through swung open.

The only reason John dared to even breathe was that the laughter flowing from the men who tumbled into the warehouse was so boisterous that he was sure they wouldn’t notice. Without warning, the place was filled with harsh, fluorescent lights that flickered as they struggled to life, and by that light, John was able to make out that he’d been pulled behind what appeared to be a large stack of wooden pallets – some that might be used to carry large quantities of heavy items by forklift. He looked to his side to see Sherlock, with his legs stuck out in front of him, chest heaving and mouth agape with silent, deep breaths, head tipped back against the wooden pallets at their backs. As they both caught their breath and regained their bearings, John took a moment to listen as he began to catch words coming through the riotous laughter.

“And _you_ thought it weren’t safe,” one man cajoled in a tinny voice; John could just imagine his sneer. “Told ye we’d manage. Got ‘nother four grand ‘n this haul – at least!”

“Right you may be,” another voice chimed in, the words filling the large room in a very familiar accent. John looked over to Sherlock, who was looking back at him, and the doctor mouthed; _Russian._

“But there cannot be any more delays.” The voice continued, and John didn’t think he’d ever seen a smirk so full of dark satisfaction as the one he saw on Sherlock’s face. “We have managed to escape the New Scotland Yard up to now, but we must leave tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the first voice said dismissively. “Warren has the boat ready. But you’ve no reason ta worry, Harley said the cops were crawlin’ all over Heathrow this morning. They’ve not got a damn clue.” There was a rustle of fabric followed by a clink of metal against metal and concrete as the voice trailed off.

“Aye, they prolly think you two are in good ol’ Mother Russia,” a third voice supplied, words drawn out and heavy-laden with a severe Cockney accent. “And we dinnit even left a tag on this last one, so they won’t even know it’s us.”

The voice which sounded next was so unexpectedly close to where he and Sherlock were hiding that John actually jumped where he sat, his breath catching in his throat. “They’ll know we didn’t board the plane soon enough,” a second thick Russian accent drawled, heavy boots padding slowly across the concrete floor. They were getting closer to the side of the pallet stack he and Sherlock were pressed against, so John scooted towards Sherlock, and the detective followed suit, sliding as quietly as possible against the cold floor to the other side of the stack of wood – which was thankfully still facing away from the other men in the room. “Two tickets from Gatwick and a sighting near Heathrow is enough to confuse them for a day at most. They’ll find out we didn’t board the plane, and they’ll know we’re still here.” John’s heart was in his throat, but he let his breath out slowly through his nose when he heard the footsteps retreat in the direction they’d come.

“Well then it’s a damn good thing we’re leaving this shithole tonight then, innit?” An unfamiliar voice said, and the comment was followed by laughter.

There was a rustling of items and of feet, and in the brief pause in dialogue, John turned to Sherlock, easily catching the man’s attention. _‘What do we do?’_ he mouthed, words barely audible to even himself as they left him on a breath, and Sherlock merely shrugged. The nonchalance with which the man silently answered made John want to simultaneously roll his eyes and laugh; because apparently the man had gone to the trouble to coordinate a pickup spot for information detailing the precise location of these people, had brought along a lockpick set as he’d anticipated locked doors being a potential obstacle, but hadn’t planned what the _fuck_ they were going to do once they were actually _inside the damned warehouse._ Fucking _fabulous_.

“Oh, just got a text from Warren,” one of the men said, “he’ll be pullin’ up under the bridge in just under ten minutes.” 

“He got most of the goods earlier in the day, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, Harlow helped him load the cache this morning. It’s all floating east down the Thames in another boat as we speak,” the first voice said, pride oozing from his words. “They'll hook up with Tate further down and he’ll take it across the English Channel. And we’ll take the same route tonight, meet up with Tate, he’ll ship us over – and then it’s a straight shot from there to the docks where lovely old _Norah Creina_ will take us to sunny Portugal.”

John noticed something in Sherlock’s eyes light up at all of the information that had just been divulged, as if it had confirmed whatever he’d already known, or as if hearing it all together connected so many different facts in his head. He swore, if Sherlock were thinking any louder, he’d give away their hiding spot.

“Portugal, of all places,” one of the Russians said. “Never did like Portugal.” The words were followed by a grunt as he presumably lifted something heavy.

The first man snorted a hideous laugh. “Get ready to ditch your vodka and swap it for port wine, you fucking Russkies,” he said, and his laugh was joined by a few others as the men milled about, doing what sounded like moving boxes.

“So tonight we just need to take what we picked up from this hit and take it to the river?” one asked, and it was met with a grunt.

“Just that. We’ll board up with Warren and be off.” Another grunt. “Can’t wait to have food with actual _flavour_.”

The chatter continued as the men carried on milling about the space on the other side of the stack of wooden flats, and John was about to suggest Sherlock contact Lestrade before it was too late, when he looked over and saw the detective's face illuminated by the soft, blueish-white glow of his mobile, thumbs ungloved and flying across the screen. When the man sent off the message he’d typed out, he looked back up to meet John’s eyes, and his lips silently formed around the name; _Lestrade_ ; and John smiled softly and nodded in understanding. The small smile that took hold on Sherlock’s face was triumphant, and John’s chest swelled with pride.

All of that changed in an instant when a shrill noise emitted from Sherlock’s hands.

The feeling in John’s chest evaporated and was replaced by dread, heavy and lead-like in his gut while his head whirred with the realisation of what had happened, and he watched as Sherlock’s blood drained from his face, eyes widening in absolute terror as the man came to the same conclusion. In an instant, though, John was being shoved roughly back, and before he could question just why the bloody fuck Sherlock was shoving him away, the brunette made an obnoxious amount of noise clambering in the opposite direction as commotion broke out in the main part of the large room.

“The hell was that?!" 

“Back there! Back there!” 

The sounds of footsteps hammering against the concrete floor launched John into action – because he realised that he was absolutely no good to Sherlock if he was caught as well. So he crawled around the flat and dove behind a piece of machinery – something that resembled a plough, the orange paint having long been mostly eroded away and replaced with the titian hue of rust. He scrambled to the opposite side of it, ending up a fair distance away from where he and Sherlock had been hiding, and peeked carefully between the rusted steel parts to see where Sherlock was still making a show of scrambling across the floor.

_“Fuck, Sherlock, fuck, fuck, fuck,”_ John breathed through gritted teeth, ducking his head to tap the butt of his gun against his temple agitatedly – because of fucking _course_ , the most brilliant man in the world would forget to silence his _bloody_ mobile on a fucking _stealth mission._ As an afterthought, John jammed his hand into his pocket to make sure his own phone was silenced. Didn’t need the same thing happening to him.

He watched on, helpless, as Sherlock lie prone on the floor, looking up at one of the Russians – whom John recognized as _‘Matvei,’_ – who loomed menacingly over him with a gruesome grin.

“What do we have here?” the man asked, reaching down to fist one meaty hand in Sherlock’s curls to haul the young man to his feet, and John’s teeth clenched with fury, his hand tightening around his gun as Sherlock audibly winced, hand scrambling to cover the large one that hauled him up. “This is the little brat who was working with our dear Sutton,” Matvei announced to the rest of the men – John counted four others, including Pavel, who stood by the pallets. “Are you alone?” Matvei asked of Sherlock, and the detective huffed.

“Do you _see_ anyone else?” he asked haughtily, and John fought the urge to roll his eyes and groan. _Don’t aggravate them, you fuckwit._

He watched Matvei jerk his head up in Pavel’s direction in a silent demand, and Pavel proceeded to check around the wooden flats that Sherlock had emerged from behind. Thankfully, his search didn’t take him to John’s new hiding place before he wandered back to join his brother, where he snatched the phone from Sherlock’s hand.

Matvei held Sherlock still, his hand remaining fisted in Sherlock’s hair, maintaining the upper hand despite the fact that Sherlock was almost at least half a head taller than him, while Pavel opened and thumbed through the phone. “Who is this? Lestrade?” he asked, his accent making the DI’s name barely recognisable.

“Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard,” Sherlock supplied quickly.

Pavel huffed a laugh. “Well, he’s shared our location. This Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard… he said he’ll be here in about five minutes." He feigned a look of distress in the direction of the other men in the room before he gave an oily grin and tossed Sherlock's mobile away to clatter noisily against the concrete floor. "Too bad we’ll be gone,” he said, and the men laughed darkly.

“And I’ll tell him where you’ve gone,” Sherlock countered, and John _seriously_ wanted to hit him.

“Oh, we can’t have that,” Matvei said, and raised his free hand to hold it out to his side and slightly behind him, palm up in a silent request. “You failed with Sutton, and you will fail with us. Except this time we will not force you to live with your failure,” he said with feigned compassion, and John’s worst fear was realised when one of the other men in the warehouse stepped forward and deposited a pistol into Matvei’s outstretched hand. He should have expected it, but nothing could have prepared him for the painful throb of terror in his chest at the sight of Matvei’s Cheshire grin combined with Sherlock’s sharp eyes widening with barely-suppressed panic as the gun was raised.

_Sherlock._ He wanted to scream. He wanted to burst out from his hiding spot and fill all five of their smarmy heads with lead for even  _thinking_ about harming Sherlock. But while his frenzied mind was racing with his impulses, his soldier's body took over, moving on muscle memory, and John, strangely comforted by the action of raising his gun to point through the busted-out window of the construction machine he was half-crouched behind, let his mind go eerily blank. A disturbingly quiet sense of calm overwhelmed him despite the horrifying situation as his thumb methodically switched off the safety and moved to pull back the hammer.

“You’ve been a good little pet for the police,” Matvei said, raising his own gun to press the end of the barrel bluntly against Sherlock’s forehead. John’s eyes honed in on the man’s thick thumb pulling back the hammer, and he pulled his back at the same time, timing it so that they clicked simultaneously. “But your time is now up. Boys,” Matvei addressed over his shoulder without taking his eyes from Sherlock, “gather up the goods and ready to take them to the boat. It will be here soon.” His attention turned fully back to Sherlock, and his head tipped slightly as a morbid smile slowly stretched across his face. “Dasvidaniya.”

John’s world went quiet, his focus narrowing to his index finger wrapping around the cool metal of his trigger. He let out a slow breath, watching and waiting until Matvei’s forefinger gave the barest twitch against the trigger before John pulled back on his own.

The sound of a gunshot filled the silence. There was a small burst of red, a flurry of motion, and the sound of a body crumpling to the ground before a single cry of pure agony rang with the gunshot in John's ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYYY LOOK EXCITING THINGS ARE HAPPENING! ANOTHER CHAPTER IS ON THE HORIZON, SO STAY TUNED!
> 
> Thank you endlessly for clicking your way here, for reading, for leaving kudos, for sharing your thoughts - anything and everything is appreciated. You all are the reason I'm here. So THANK YOU. You all are what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving. <3
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, thanks again for clicking your way here, have a LOVELY day, and I'll see you all back here soon!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise mid-week update! Enjoy some excitement followed by crazy amounts of fluff.

The skittering of Sherlock’s shoes against the concrete as he hurriedly distanced himself from the lifeless heap and the rapidly widening pool of crimson on the floor was swallowed by the lamenting wails of Pavel as the man staggered forward to collapse on his knees beside his brother. As John watched on, everything seemed to happen in slow-motion; Sherlock tripped over his own feet and landed hard on his backside, rendered clumsy by his shock; Pavel brought his hands, already glistening, red and wet, to hold his head in stunned disbelief while a string of pleas in Russian fell from his lips; of the other three men in the room, one had drawn his gun and was pointing it frantically everywhere, one had retrieved the discarded firearm from the floor by Matvei’s limp hand and was pointing it in Sherlock’s direction, and the third man, appearing unarmed and clearly shaken, was taking hasty steps towards the door.

Acting too quickly to properly aim, John pointed his gun at the man taking aim at Sherlock, who was prone on the floor, and he fired. There were shouts of surprise and frustration, and then one of pain as the gun previously aimed at Sherlock clattered to the floor and the man gripped his wounded arm, the grey fabric of the hoodie he wore already growing dark with blood.

“Son of a _BITCH!_ ” he shouted, and grit his teeth, his face obscured by his ratty ginger hair as he doubled over in pain.

“What the _FUCK,_ Bids,” the man still holding his gun yelled, and John ducked as the gun in the man’s hands aimed nearer to where he was hiding.

“There’s someone else- _fuck-_ there’s someone else in here! Fucking find him and _shoot him_ , Kent, _fuck’s sake-”_

Not a kill-shot, John thought to himself as he closed his eyes and took a fortifying breath - but it’d give Sherlock enough time to get to relative safety. A quick peek through the broken windows of the ploughing machine revealed Sherlock had indeed managed to cover what remained of the distance between him and the stack of wooden flats they’d hid behind before, where he was sitting, back against the wood, head tipped back, eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling. The man’s chest visibly rose and fell under the pale fist clasped against it with quick, heavy breaths, his lips parted as he panted, and after a moment of gathering himself, Sherlock turned his head, meeting John’s gaze immediately. And what the doctor saw in those eyes, bright and nearly black with how wide his pupils had dilated, was adrenaline, excitement, a hint of fear, and something else; something undefined.

And it would remain undefined for the time being, as a gunshot followed by the sharp _‘ping’_ of a bullet ricocheting off metal sounded much too close to John’s head for his liking. He quickly ducked, but his cover was already blown.

“He’s over there,” Kent’s voice sounded, and rapid footfalls quickly followed. Another gunshot; another bullet hitting metal. John took a breath; he knew that if he rounded the machinery to stay out of eyesight of Kent, and ‘Bids,’ and everyone else in the room, Kent would follow him - which would put Sherlock in the line of fire. A phantom ache in his left shoulder reminded him that he’d already been shot once. He’d died on the operating table. He’d been through hell, spent months in recovery, had his livelihood stripped from him, spent months after the fact wishing he’d died and contemplating finishing the job himself. Would he rather go through all of that again, or risk the life of someone else?

In the end, the decision wasn’t difficult.

He emerged fully from behind the cover of the rusted out plough, gun raised and ready in both hands, because as much as he really preferred  _not_  to get shot ever again, he’d rather spend an eternity suffering than let anyone come close to harming Sherlock Holmes, if he could help it. His heart rate accelerated as he watched Kent’s finger twitch against the trigger of the pistol in his hands, and John dove out of the way as another gunshot echoed in the space. John fired and missed, moving too quickly and too erratically to properly aim, but what mattered was that he was drawing the attention of everyone in the room. They were paying attention to him, not Sherlock. The doctor landed on the floor and rolled smoothly over, rising to one knee and pointing his gun once again to Kent, who bared his teeth and flipped his greasy, long brown hair out of his face before firing.

John was thankful for the man’s poor aim, but as he pointed his own gun and fired whilst attempting to maneuver, he couldn’t say much better about himself; this shot merely grazed the man’s outer thigh. He cursed along with Kent, but for a different reason.

“Bloody buggering _fuck_ , I’m going to fucking _kill_ you,” Kent shouted, charging forward with as much conviction as he could with the subtle limp that was taking over his stride. As the man raised his gun and John raised his own, though, a shout from off to the side drew their attention.

“Police!!”

Both John and Kent whipped their heads around to look at Harlow, who was standing at the door which he’d pushed open, eyes wide as he looked outside. John could faintly see red and blue lights shining on his face, and on the wall of the next warehouse outside the door, and heard the wail of distant, but swiftly approaching sirens.

One more gunshot rang out, startling John (though it missed him horribly), and he turned to find Kent a few paces closer, finger already depressing the trigger - but the gun clicked instead of firing a bullet, and for a brief moment where silence stretched between them, between Kent and himself, John didn’t know who was more surprised. But a split second later, Kent’s boot-laden foot lashed out and kicked roughly, hitting John square in the chest, sending the doctor sprawling onto his back with a loud _“oof”_ as his breath was knocked out of him, and his gun was sent skidding across the floor. When he looked back up to see Kent running as fast as he could with his mild limp towards the door, followed by Bids clutching his bloodied arm - Harlow had presumably already made a run for it - he let himself smile triumphantly, dazedly, and tiredly.

As soon as the men were through the door, the warehouse fell quiet, save for the sounds of the sirens drawing ever nearer and John's own rapid breathing, and the doctor glanced at where Matvei’s body lay in a crumpled, bloody heap on the floor. Pavel must have made a break for it early on, he surmised, and sighed as he slowly pushed himself to his feet. He heaved a breath, and his eyes moved to the wooden stack of flats he knew Sherlock to be behind. With a smile, he called out.

“Sherlock, I-”

_“John-!”_ The frantic cry of his name in Sherlock’s voice was cut abruptly short as John promptly lost consciousness.

 

\---

 

When he opened his eyes with a groan to find the warehouse blurry and sideways, feeling the cold concrete of the floor pressed to his cheek, he immediately sat up, sensing the danger before he saw it. If only he’d been as intuitive a moment ago.

And it had to have been only a moment ago, because the room wasn’t flooded with police. He could hear their vehicles outside, still not having arrived. Christ, how long was it _taking_ them to cross a bloody _lot_? His right temple throbbed achingly and his vision swam as the left side of his head that had impacted with the concrete floor gave a violent throb as well. _Concussion_ , he self-diagnosed as his vision momentarily crackled black around the edges, and he groaned inwardly - but all thoughts of his own well-being vanished when he turned his head to find Sherlock, white as a sheet, eyes wide, hands clenched at his sides, with the barrel of John’s own SIG pressed to his temple.

John’s breath halted in his throat as he looked at Pavel, who had one bloodied hand fisted in Sherlock’s curls to hold the man steady, the other red-coated hand wielding John’s gun. “Sherlock,” John croaked as he carefully stood on uneasy legs, and the younger man merely swallowed, eyes darting to the side to where the gun was pressed to his yielding flesh.

“I don’t care if I’m caught,” Pavel said, voice low, as menacing as the look on his face. “I’ve nothing to live for anymore. You took my _брат_ ,” he said, voice cracking just slightly, betraying his devastation as his red-rimmed eyes fell upon his brother’s corpse. His face hardened, then, and his fist tightened in Sherlock’s hair, prompting the detective to gasp.

“Please,” Sherlock whispered frantically, breaths coming in short gasps, and John looked at him helplessly-

-And froze.

Something was off.

The terror and paralyzing fear that were audible in Sherlock’s voice were entirely missing from his eyes - which Pavel wouldn’t see, given his position, standing an inch taller than Sherlock, and at his side rather than face to face. John blinked - had he missed something?

“Please,” Sherlock continued to plead, “ple-”

“Shut up, you,” Pavel growled through gritted teeth, and Sherlock let out a feigned whimper - but his eyes, fixed on John’s, were clear - almost _confident_.

All of a sudden, it clicked; John’s mind flooded with the vivid memory of earlier in the day, back at his flat, when he’d taken his gun out of his bedside table drawer and checked the chamber.

The magazines he used held ten bullets; prior to meeting Sherlock, after he’d been discharged from service and from hospital, John had (reluctantly) visited his sister in the country and had spent five of them in her backyard, taking his frustrations out on some emptied beer bottles, watching them shatter with a twisted sense of satisfaction. One more had been spent when, on a dismal night, he’d taken a trip to a dark part of town, silencer at the ready, his head full of intent. But what had originally started as a literal suicide mission had ended with him putting a bullet in the Earth and spending half an hour shaking with silent sobs on a park bench at two a.m.

When he’d checked the gun earlier in the day, there had been four bullets left.

Between everyone in the warehouse, many bullets had flown; and the building acted as a terribly efficient echo-chamber, distorting John’s memory of just how many times a gun had actually been fired. But he knew that his finger had pulled the trigger of his own gun four times.

Four times. Four bullets.

His gun was empty.

And Sherlock knew it.

Just _how_ Sherlock knew was beyond John, but it was clear that Sherlock knew - and when he met the man’s eyes again, he could tell that Sherlock knew that _he_ knew. They were on the same page. John had to fight the urge to smile wickedly. Instead, he affected a terrified visage, and dared to hedge closer to the two men.

Pavel, still believing he had the upper hand, grinned fouly. “One more step and I’ll paint the wall with your partner’s brains,” he threatened, and then looked skyward with a ponderous look. “Well, actually, I will do it anyway. And then I will kill you. And I will enjoy it.” His evil smile returned. “It will be the last thing I do before going to prison, and I will _savour it._ ” His yellowed teeth were visible between his cracked lips, parting in what looked like more of a grimace than a smile, and John braced himself.

He took a step forward, acting as though he wasn’t heeding Pavel’s warning. The large man gave an apathetic snort, and pulled the trigger.

It all happened simultaneously; the metal of the hammer clicking was quickly followed by a gasp of air from Sherlock, which mingled with the pounding of John’s trainers on the floor as he charged. John only had a moment to register the look of surprised recognition on Pavel’s face before he slammed hard into the man’s front with a grunt of exertion, his good shoulder making contact with the man’s sternum, knocking the wind out of Pavel and sending them both toppling to the floor.

Quickly, John pushed himself up, half leaning on Pavel, and wound up his arm before he hurled his fist at the man’s face with a muted grunt, his fist making contact with Pavel’s jaw and making the man shout- but a moment later, the larger man regained his bearings and hurled a meaty fist at John’s head, and John’s vision swam as he pitched sideways with a stifled sound of pain.

He hit the floor and Pavel nearly climbed on top of him, one red-stained hand clutching at the front of his jacket while the other rose high in the air, and with a grunt, he let it fly, channelling his weight and his devastation at the loss of his brother into the punch. And John felt the devastation as the man’s knuckles hit him square in the face. The doctor gave a wordless yelp and shoved both of his hands at Pavel’s neck, attempting to strangulate, or at least divert the man for a moment, but while John was undoubtedly strong, Pavel was _massive._ The Russian was all but crushing John with his weight, making it hard to breathe, and by God, there was a hell of a lot of force behind his fist. Said fist was raising in the air, ready to deliver another devastating blow, and John’s hands were pressed hard against the man’s thick neck, trying and failing to locate and depress his carotid arteries - he braced himself for the next blow, knowing full well he would very likely lose consciousness. He just hoped the police got in before the man got to Sherlock-

A flurry of motion to his left was followed by a loud grunt, and the sickening crack of something solid impacting skull, and John watched with awe as Pavel’s awareness left his pale blue eyes. The man slumped and fell, half on top of John, who squirmed and quickly pushed the man off of him with no small amount of effort. Hastily, he rose on shaking legs, chest heaving, head and body aching, and as he looked down at Pavel’s unconscious form, his tongue darted out habitually to wet his lips - only to be met with the strong taste of warm copper.

“Fuck,” he whispered, disgusted at the thought that the blood from Pavel’s fist had gotten onto his mouth - but Pavel hadn’t hit his mouth. John raised his hand to touch tentatively under his nose, and as he withdrew his hand to find his fingers covered in sticky, red fluid, he rolled his eyes. “Great,” he murmured derisively, wiping the length of his sleeve under his nose to swipe away the blood that was steadily leaking from it, wincing at the pain as he brushed his nose too roughly.

All thoughts of himself vanished, though, when he remembered Sherlock was still in the room - but he couldn’t entirely be blamed for nearly forgetting, as the room was dead silent save for John’s own breathing and the sirens outside. He looked up, wide-eyed with concern, to see Sherlock, whose eyes were even wider than his own, staring at Pavel’s body on the ground. His hair was disheveled from having been grabbed and pulled at by two separate people in the span of five minutes, likely still sticky with the blood from Pavel’s fingers, and in his pale hand was John’s gun; he held it in a white-knuckled grip it by the barrel, having bashed Pavel over the head with the heavy solidity of the butt of the SIG.

“Sherlock,” John summoned trepidatiously; the man looked so fragile, so shaken, and he didn’t want to startle him further. Hearing his name seemed to bring Sherlock back to himself, and John watched as the man sucked in a breath and looked between Pavel and the gun in his hands, before letting it fall, sending it clattering to the floor, leaving his pale fingers empty and shaking. His eyes moved to John, and his shoulders sagged.

“Are you alri-” John’s cautious inquiry was cut short with a surprised _‘mmph!’_  when Sherlock stumbled over his trembling legs and threw his full weight into John, which, thankfully, wasn’t nearly as much to bear as Pavel’s weight had been. All thoughts of Pavel and the gang and the warehouse and the police faded into the background as Sherlock’s large hands moved to frame John’s face, the young detective’s eyes looking frantic as they darted between the doctor’s, and John felt Sherlock’s breaths breaking on his face in short puffs before, all at once, Sherlock was kissing him.

John made another muffled noise, this one conveying pleased yet confused surprise as Sherlock’s lips moved against his own, and it was nothing like earlier; not chaste, brief, sweet - but hungry, frantic, _unhinged._ The passion and conviction with which Sherlock attacked his mouth swept John up and the older man gave a whimper at the feeling of teeth against his lower lip.  His hands rose to tangle in Sherlock’s tumultuous curls, making Sherlock breathe out a desperate noise against his mouth. They were uncoordinated, both trembling with the rise and crash of adrenaline and relief and gratitude, their mouths perfectly out of sync as they kissed, desperate, wanting, _needing-_

Then the moment was broken when Sherlock moved his head and his nose bumped against John’s. The doctor yelped and leaned back, distantly enamoured by how Sherlock’s lips tried desperately to follow his own, but John prevailed, turning his head to the side and breaking the kiss for good, however reluctant he was to do so. “Fuck, my nose,” he said, still wincing, and Sherlock’s hands guided his head to look at him again.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed quickly, and John nearly laughed, because there were streaks of red marring the man’s porcelain skin, on the tip and side of his nose, just above the perfect Cupid’s bow of his top lip, and on his cheek. Despite the fact that he _should_ be rather horrified at the fact that his own blood was streaked across Sherlock’s skin, the doctor couldn’t hide his quirky, fond smile.

“It’s okay,” John breathed back, and his eyes darted to Sherlock’s mouth, nearly ready to kiss him again, but they were interrupted by the side door of the warehouse being kicked open with incredible force. The men jumped away from each other, startled, as several uniformed officers poured into the room, weapons drawn and pointed at them.

John instinctively raised his hands, and glanced at Sherlock to see the younger man rolling his eyes and half-heartedly putting his hands in the air by his shoulders, palms facing outward, looking for all the world like a horribly inconvenienced, stroppy teenager.

“Lestraaaaade!” he yelled, drawing out the man’s name in a frustrated whine, “call your bloody dogs off, please!”

A familiar face came in through the door, gun drawn, and, after taking in the scene before him, with two men on the ground and two men who put them there on their feet half covered in blood, the DI heaved a hefty sigh and dropped his weapon, motioning for the uniformed officers behind him to do the same. “Get forensics in here,” Greg said over his shoulder, before making his way over to stand before both John and Sherlock, his expression not unlike that of a drained parent.

“You two,” he said, looking between the pair, arms crossing over his chest, “are going to be the death of me, aren’t you?”

“Not if we end up killing each other first,” John murmured light-heartedly, smiling when Sherlock snorted.

Greg’s eyebrows receded into his hairline. “Well you already look like you’ve fucking _mauled_ eachother,” he said, not without heavy innuendo as he took in the blood covering both of their faces.

“Nosebleeds-”

“Snogging-”

They both spoke simultaneously, and John went absolutely scarlet and rolled his eyes as Sherlock gave an impish grin, looking thoroughly pleased.

Lestrade leveled a look at John. “Sherlock can say whatever he wants about me being shite at my job, but it doesn’t take a detective to figure _that_ out, Dr. Watson.” John opened his mouth to protest, but Greg held up a hand to stop him. “Hey, I’m not judging or complaining. Far be it from me to complain about _this one_ having someone to look after him,” he said, jabbing an accusatory thumb in Sherlock’s direction, which had the younger man scowling in affront. “Besides,” the DI continued, “from the looks of things-” his chocolate eyes scanned the two bodies on the ground, “-I’m not entirely confident you would have weaseled your way out of this one, Sher.”

Affecting a sour face at the shortening of his name, Sherlock huffed. “I’m not deigning that with a response,” he muttered haughtily, “because any refutation on my part would discredit John, and I believe he deserves far more credit for this than I do.” The look he gave John still held an air of indifference, but the doctor saw the softness behind the visage, and his heart melted as his lips formed an adoring smile.

“Good Lord,” Greg murmured, sounding physically ill as he turned away, shaking his head and heading towards the door. “Come outside and see the paramedics,” he called back to them on a sigh.

“We will,” Sherlock chirped, striding forward, and John followed eagerly. Then, as they passed the DI, Sherlock turned to look at him. “Oh, and you may want to put _that one_ in handcuffs before he regains consciousness,” he said, nodding at Pavel’s prone body on the ground, and Lestrade nearly jumped out of his skin, looking back at the unconscious man with undisguised shock.

“He’s _not_ dead?!” he asked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard John could almost feel it.

“He’s _breathing_ , you idiot,” Sherlock said, though the comment lacked any real heat.

“And you didn’t think to _tell me?_ Fuck,” Greg cursed as he pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt and moved to kick John’s gun far away from the body on the floor, before standing with his feet on either side of Pavel’s thighs, gathering his limp hands behind his back and clamping the metal of the handcuffs snugly around his thick wrists.

“Oh, and Greg?” Sherlock called again, and the DI looked up wordlessly, eyebrow raising in silent inquiry. “My brother will be contacting you regarding one of the pieces of evidence here,” he said, nodding towards the gun the man had just kicked away. Lestrade followed his gaze and then looked back to Sherlock, clearly puzzled. But when Sherlock proceeded to tip his head to the side, indicating John, Greg’s eyes widened in comprehension. Meanwhile, John went crimson.

“We’ll get the powder burns out of your fingers - I don’t suppose you’d go to jail for this, but it’d be nice to avoid the court case,” Sherlock said, a bit quieter. “Mycroft will help with that, though.”

“Right,” John said cautiously, but he was put at ease by Lestrade waving dismissively at him.

“Don’t worry, mate,” he said, “Mycroft will settle it all. Hell, you’ll probably have it back by tomorrow,” he muttered, though his words lacked heat; they were simply filled with the exhaustion that apparently came with dealing with the Holmes brothers and their antics. As suddenly prostrate as John felt, he was inclined to agree with the weariness in Greg’s voice.

The doctor gave a light-tipped smile. “Thank you. Sorry for the trouble,” he apologised, and Greg shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it. You two, go and see the paramedics. I’ll drop by for both of your statements tomorrow - you both look dead on your feet. Besides, I’m sure there’s plenty you’d _rather_ be doing tonight than spending a few hours at the station,” he said, allusion heavy in his words and in the brief smirk he threw them.

It appeared John’s cheeks were simply destined to remain forever rosy.

“Ta,” Sherlock chirped, and thankfully rescued John from any more small-talk and humiliation by tugging him through the door to the warehouse by his elbow.

Outside, the air was crisp, and John hadn’t realised that the scents of gunpowder and blood had been overwhelming him until he got a breath of fresh air. He sighed heavily and smiled, drunk on adrenaline and the fresh air and _Sherlock_ \- he glanced at the man who had since dropped his arm, and grinned. “C’m’ere,” he beckoned, halting when they got past the initial swarm of police cruisers, partway to the ambulance. Sherlock stopped obediently and faced him, brows quirked in entreaty. Smiling, John reached up to grab the dark blue scarf wrapped around Sherlock’s neck and pulled it away, noticing Sherlock shiver as the long column of his neck was exposed to the night air. “You’re covered in my blood,” John murmured bemusedly, bringing the soft fabric up to swipe gently at a spot of red on Sherlock’s cheek.

_“Excuse me_ ,” Sherlock said, jerking away, looking properly scandalised, “that is _Prada._ ”

John rolled his eyes. “I’ll buy you a new one. Come here,” he said again, raising his other hand to the back of Sherlock’s head to steady him as he brushed away the blood on his cheek.

“Two-hundred quid, John.”

John froze, his eyes widening. “For a _scarf?_ ”

“Cashmiere.”

“You spoilt brat.”

Sherlock pouted adorably. “My skin is _sensitive!_ ” he whined as John swiped the (apparently fucking _expensive_ ) fabric over the tip of his nose. “Anything less than pashmina has me breaking out in hives.” He shivered, presumably at some distant, unpleasant memory.

“Mm, right,” John murmured, the hint of a smirk emerging as he gingerly ran a clean patch of the fabric over Sherlock’s top lip. “Well, if you can drop two-hundred quid on a _scarf_ , maybe you can help me pay my rent as payback for staying over the past few days,” he teased jokingly.

When the scarf was removed from his mouth to gently scrub at a semi-dried bit of blood beside his nose, Sherlock spoke. “Okay. Or we could just split the rent.”

The forwardness of the comment had something in John’s chest tightening, but he played it off as best he could, giving a light huff of laughter as he continued cleaning away the blood. “What, you planning to move in?” he asked, meaning for the question to be light-hearted.

Sherlock just shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind it. Would you mind it?”

John did his absolute best to recover from the pause in his work and in his breathing, blinking away his surprise. “There’s only one bed,” he said, instead of answering.

“I don’t have a problem with sharing.”

At that, the doctor cast his detective a withering look. “It’s _too small_ , Sherlock.”

“Then we can find a different flat. I’ve had my eye on one downtown. Nice little place, and the landlady likes me. Offered me a discounted price.” The nonchalance with which he rattled off these facts as if they _weren’t_ the most terrifying things John had ever heard made John envy him so, so much. Did he know what he was doing to him?

John’s hand had stopped moving, his eyes wide, and Sherlock noticed. The brunette looked between John’s eyes and John saw the moment the younger man began to panic.

“I-I mean, obviously you don’t want- you don’t-”

“-Sherlock.”

“... Yes?”

John smiled, slowly, adoringly, and soon he was beaming, and had to duck his head to avoid looking like a complete maniac. “I think- I think this is all happening a bit… fast,” he said carefully, and when he looked back up, Sherlock looked more than a little embarrassed and even more scared. “But,” John continued, and worried his bottom lip for a moment before continuing, “I think… I think I’d like that.”

The light that filled Sherlock’s eyes warmed John thoroughly. He made it a goal, then and there, to make Sherlock look like that more often. “Really?” the detective asked through a happy smile, surprised and pleased.

“Mm,” John confirmed with a nod, before sighing softly and stepping back, idly reaching up to straighten the lapels of Sherlock’s coat. “We can go check it out later this week. Right now, we need to get to that ambulance, because my nose may be broken, I have a concussion, and I need to get you home before you keel over. As soon as the adrenaline crashes, you’re likely not going to be able to stand,” he said, and thankfully, Sherlock didn’t protest.

But as John turned to lead the way to the red, boxy vehicle with its lights on, waiting for them, Sherlock caught him by the shoulder and gently spun him back around the face him. Before John could pose a question, he was surprised by a brief, chaste press of Sherlock’s warm, slightly-chapped lips against his own. The doctor let out a pleased hum and smiled when Sherlock pulled away, but rolled his eyes fondly when he saw a new spot of red adorning Sherlock’s top lip. He reached up quickly to wipe it away with the scarf he still held, and shook his head with fondness as he turned to walk to the ambulance, Sherlock following closely behind him.

 

\--

 

John’s nose wasn’t broken. He was thankful for that, but he still managed to soil six tissues with blood whilst in the back of the ambulance, waiting for the bleeding to subside. His concussion was diagnosed (though he didn’t need anyone else to tell him he had one) after he’d squinted and winced as lights were shone in his eyes and he was asked all of the rudimentary, obvious questions. Doctors really were the worst patients.

Or maybe the _second-_ worst patients, John thought as he watched Sherlock grouse and sneer at each hand that prodded at him, loudly declaring that he _had_ a doctor who was _"f_ _ar_ more adept than _any_ _of you idiots_ , _"_ and John had to hide his manic grin in a fold of the bright orange shock blanket that had been draped over his shoulders.

Plasters administered and diagnoses made, Sherlock hopped down out of the ambulance with a derisive huff, already pulling his own vibrant orange blanket from his shoulders. “These things are ridiculous,” he muttered, balling the sheet up and tossing the offending wad of fabric away, forgotten, to land on the ledge on the back of the ambulance near where John was sitting.

Letting out a slow sigh, John shrugged his own blanket off of his shoulders and was about to hop down off of the edge when Sherlock came to stand before him, situating himself between John’s knees. The blond looked up to find the detective looking at him intently.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and he sounded more sincere than John had anticipated. The doctor blinked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, brow furrowing.

“Well, you have just killed a man,” Sherlock reminded quietly, lowly, so the paramedics wouldn’t overhear. “And shot two others.”

“Well, yes-” John started, but stopped, and tilted his head. “But they weren’t very nice men, were they?”

Sherlock grinned. John’s lips mirrored it.

“Which reminds me,” the older man continued, looking off to the side, back towards the warehouses, “what happened to the others? The three guys who ran?”

His question was met with a shrug. “Haven’t the faintest,” Sherlock said with a soft sigh. “I’ll ask Lestrade tomorrow. I can’t imagine they got terribly far.”

“And you’re not curious?” John asked, a touch worried. “That’s… unlike you.”

“I’m tired,” Sherlock admitted on a long, drawn-out breath. “And let’s not forget I’m still suffering withdrawal symptoms. Quite frankly, I’m amazed I’ve managed to go this long without vomiting.”

John’s concern grew. Now that he mentioned it, Sherlock was looking a bit peaky. “Mm. You okay to make the trek to the road for a cab?” he asked gently as he slowly slid down off the ledge and stood before the detective, who took a fortifying breath and nodded.

“Should be fine. And I’ve got you with me. You could just carry me if I collapse.” The small grin that crossed his features did not go unnoticed by John; he snorted dubiously.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” John murmured, his own grin audible in his words, and Sherlock gave a hum in acknowledgement.

They reached the main road without incident and Sherlock utilised what John was irrevocably convinced were dark magic powers to hail a taxi almost immediately after they approached the kerb. Both men fell into comfortable, exhausted silence in the back seat of the cab, and sometime during the ride, Sherlock’s hand had found its way to John’s thigh just above his knee - an intimate touch, but lacking heat; it was more of a reaffirming gesture, and John indulged it happily by covering Sherlock’s larger hand with his own. And a few long moments later when Sherlock’s hand adjusted so that John’s fingers slipped between the gaps of the younger man’s thinner ones, John didn’t even try to hide his smile as he gazed out the window.

He did have to let go of Sherlock’s hand, though, however reluctantly, when they arrived at John’s flat; he quickly paid the cab driver and left a decent tip before he led the way out of the taxi, up the sidewalk, and through the front door. They walked in silence up the stairs and down the hallway, and wordlessly entered John’s flat. The quiet would have been odd, except John knew the precise reason for it; they were both exhausted. Sherlock wasn’t even a week sober, was running on little food and less sleep than John would like, and had had a gun pointed at his head on two separate occasions in one night. John himself could feel his eyelids drooping; he was sore, physically and mentally drained, concussed, and eager for a reprieve.

Both men toed off their shoes, John using a hand on the wall for support, before they shed their jackets - and Sherlock wordlessly took John’s from him to toss on the floor in a heap.

“I’ll have them both dry-cleaned,” he said. “I know someone who isn’t squeamish about blood.” The taller man gave a wry smile at the startled expression John aimed at him.

“Is it because he’s… killed people?” John ventured.

Sherlock’s grin only grew. “Not people. He used to be a butcher," he explained.

"And, what, he repays you in dry-cleaning services for the time you stopped people stealing his ham-hocks?" John asked, smile quirking his lips.

The detective tipped his head to the side, his grin still in place. "I helped him put up some shelves."

The eye-roll John gave him was met with a low chuckle.

“I need a wash,” the doctor announced with a sigh, “and you need a shower; I’m not letting you fall asleep with blood in your hair.”

Sherlock let out a low hum and began pulling at the hem of his shirt to disrobe, which John tried and failed not to watch. “I’ll go first,” the brunette said as he pulled the garment over his head and tossed it into the slowly-growing pile of blood-stained garments, “because I am certain I will fall asleep waiting for you to finish.”

“I think I might do the same,” John murmured as he pulled off his jumper, leaving him in his tee-shirt, which thankfully managed to escape the blood that had reached the rest of his clothes.

“We could go together,” Sherlock offered easily, and John looked at him dubiously.

“Bit early for that, I think,” he said carefully.

Sherlock merely shrugged. “Sharing a shower doesn’t have to be a sexual experience.”

John thought it sounded rational, but as his gaze unwittingly flickered to the pale expanse of Sherlock’s abdomen, adorned with the occasional mole and baring a light dusting of dark hair below his navel, in the moment he’d likely feel a lot differently. “I don’t need a shower,” he compromised, “I just need to wash my face and hands.”

“Then we can both be in the bathroom at the same time,” Sherlock concluded, already heading off in the direction of the bathroom, unbuttoning his jeans along the way. John went after him, pulling off his own shirt and tossing it near the foot of the bed.

Once in the bathroom, Sherlock quickly shed his jeans, kicking them off to land in the corner of the room, and John, growing more comfortable in the proceedings, began unfastening his own; but he stopped when he looked up and happened to find Sherlock staring at him.

“What?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious, and it was then that he realised Sherlock’s eyes were trained on his shoulder. The ex-soldier’s cheeks warmed at the realisation, and he quickly turned away - but that revealed the entry wound in the back of his shoulder, and he inwardly winced. “I’m sorry,” he apologised quickly, and opened his mouth to say more, but he was startled by a slightly-chilled hand coming to rest on his back, directly over his scar. A small gasp left him and he stared, in horror, at the closed bathroom door. “Sherlock,” he breathed, half a warning, half a plea.

After a silence that stretched on far too long, Sherlock finally spoke. “May I see?”

Cringing inwardly and outwardly, John took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and turned around. He had his eyes shut for the first few moments, anticipating the sounds of disgust, but after a few moments of quiet, he dared to open his eyes. The look he was met with wasn’t one of repulsion, but one of fascination. And it wasn’t just that - swimming in Sherlock’s eyes were layers of emotion; awe, curiosity, revelation, and a hint of sadness. John felt impossibly small under the focus of that gaze.

“It’s fascinating,” the younger man said on a careful whisper, a curious hand rising between them to let gentle fingers brush across the prominent webbing on the outskirts of the starburst marring John’s skin. “Beautiful,” he continued, and something in John’s chest shattered.

“Hardly,” he tried to joke, but it came out weak, sounding more self-deprecating than lighthearted. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his, and the emotion in his eyes shifted.

“It’s proof of your resilience,” he began, “and of your vitality. Look,” he gestured, and John followed Sherlock’s pale fingers with his eyes as he brushed along the scar tissue. “Scarring; proof of healing. A body that heals is a body that is alive and fighting,” he said, each word falling reverently from his lips. John let out a shaky breath. “Proof of bravery,” the man continued, pressing his palm flat against the gnarled, pink flesh of the exit wound. “Proof of the battles you’ve fought.”

“Proof of the battles I’ve lost,” John amended, the heavy feeling in his gut only growing more prominent. Sherlock looked back at his face, eyes hard.

“Proof of the battles you’ve _won,_ ” he corrected adamantly. “You’re alive. They didn’t defeat you.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock shut him down swiftly.

“And don’t say you’ve lost the ability to fight, because you shot three men this evening and fought hand-to-hand with another man twice your size and you prevailed.” His eyebrows rose, daring John to counter him.

The doctor rolled his eyes, and heaved a sigh, intending to convey how very hard Sherlock was making it to feel bad about himself - but he couldn’t help the small smirk that turned up the corner of his lips. “I suppose I put up a decent fight tonight-- we both did,” he acquiesced, much to Sherlock’s delight, if the soft smile that graced his lips was anything to go by. “Speaking of,” John continued, easing away from the depth of their conversation by steering back to what they’d come in here to do in the first place, “I’m knackered, you need a shower, and I’m supposed to be the therapist; not you,” he teased lightly, and Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“I learned from the best,” he said with a quiet smile, before turning and stripping off his briefs (which John admired in the reflection of the mirror over the sink with a private grin), before reaching into the shower to turn on the tap. “Besides, you have a therapist anyway,” he quipped before stepping into the shower and tugging the curtain closed, leaving John unable to argue and instead chuckling to himself as he turned on the sink.

Five minutes later, John was patting his face, freshly-washed and freshly-shaved, dry. He’d stripped off his jeans and stood at the sink in his boxers, his toothbrush replaced in its designated cup after he’d brushed his teeth, and all bloody remnants of the evening had been washed down the drain. John stood, leaning over the sink, a tentative finger gingerly prodding at the tender skin around the bridge of his nose as Sherlock turned off the shower tap and opened the curtain.

“This is going to bruise badly,” John murmured, eyes continuing their inspection of the skin around his nose and eyes as he heard Sherlock step out of the shower.

“Expected,” Sherlock said as he moved behind John, and the doctor couldn’t help but wonder at the ease of the domesticity they'd fallen into. It was as if they’d been doing this forever. A moment passed and Sherlock materialised beside him at the sink, bare save for a pristine, white towel slung around his hips. “It’ll be unnoticeable by next week,” he continued, leaning a bit closer to the mirror to look. “Just be glad it isn’t broken.”

“Mm, fair enough,” John mumbled before leaning back. The skin was already starting to change from angry red to purple, and he wasn’t looking forward to the discomfort that would plague him for the next week or so. Heaving a heavy sigh, he watched Sherlock pick up the toothbrush John had retrieved for him from his flat and run it under a cold tap, before turning towards the door. “I’m going to get into bed,” he announced, and glanced back over his shoulder, hearing Sherlock hum around his toothbrush. “Just… join me whenever you’re done,” he added, and Sherlock caught his reflection in the mirror to smile softly at him. John smiled easily back before exiting the room and making a beeline for the bed.

He laid down over the sheets, which he’d neatly made that morning whilst Sherlock had been in the shower, and closed his eyes. He’d thought it’d only been a moment, but the next thing he knew, Sherlock’s low voice was saying his name, and there was a gentle hand at his side.

“John? John.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re taking up the entire bed. And you’re not even under the coverlet,” Sherlock said, his voice heavily laced with fondness.

“Mm,” John hummed in drowsy comprehension, and pushing himself to sit up with a soft sigh. “Sorry,” he murmured as he shuffled to the head of the bed and pushed the duvet down to crawl under it, Sherlock quickly following suit.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” the brunette said quietly as he got settled, facing John where the doctor laid on his side with his back against the wall.

“I’ll fall asleep again soon,” John reassured; as he spoke, he could already feel sleep taking him. His eyes were open just enough to see Sherlock’s smile, radiant with open affection even in its smallness.

“Good,” Sherlock whispered, and let out a breath as he settled further into the mattress. “Go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep,” John murmured sleepily back, and Sherlock snorted softly.

“I will.” The statement was punctuated by a yawn, and John’s chest expanded at the sight of the skin at the bridge of Sherlock’s nose crinkling adorably as a hand came up to self-consciously cover his agape mouth. “Mm,” the man hummed when he’d finished yawning, eyes closing as his head nuzzled into the pillow.

“Good night,” John whispered as his own eyes closed completely.

“Good night, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sherlock just keeps getting guns pointed at him.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I LIVE for writing this for you guys. Thank you so incredibly much for existing. <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, check out those newly-added tags, my friends.
> 
> That's right; it's taken us eighteen chapters and nearly 100,000 words, but I do believe we have finally earned that Exclusive rating.
> 
> I won't delay you any longer. Go and read and be merry, thank you as always for clicking your way here, and I hope you enjoy.

The first thing John noticed upon waking was that he was freezing.

The second thing he noticed, was the faint smell of cigarettes.

John blinked open his sleep-heavy eyelids and gazed blearily out at the room in front of him. Sherlock’s side of the small bed was empty, and the lack of residual body heat in the mattress and pillow he'd occupied told John the man had been absent for a long while. 

A glance at the clock told him it was nearing seven in the morning, and John just barely stifled a groan; he’d slept nearly six hours, but it felt like far less. He shifted onto his back and scrubbed his hands over his face - and regretted it instantly when his hands pressed unthinkingly against his nose. He hissed in a breath and resorted to carefully scrubbing at his eyes with a disgruntled sound, before the smell of cigarettes suddenly strengthened, prompting him to take his hands away from his face to once again survey the room.

The dark red curtains billowed subtly into the room, jostled periodically by the occasional, soft gust of wind that flowed through the window, which was thrown wide open. Letting out a soft sigh, John pushed himself up and turned so his legs swung off the bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor as he rose to standing. A brief stretch of his still-aching limbs, and he made his way quietly to the window, knowing just what - or who - he’d find there.

Just over the windowsill, sitting quaintly on the dark metal grate of the fire escape, sat Sherlock, in his striped blue pyjama trousers, and a soft-looking, plain white tee-shirt that John recognised to be his own. He didn’t comment on the borrowing of clothes, only smiled softly at the way the garment hung off of Sherlock’s lanky frame. And while John didn’t particularly like the fact that Sherlock smoked, even he had to admit that the sight of the man, looking even more ethereal than usual in the pale morning light that just barely shone through the fog, a cigarette between two nimble fingers as he gazed out at the soft drizzle that dampened London… well, he painted quite the tableau.

A shiver ran through the doctor as another gentle gust of chilled air wafted into the room and over his bare skin - he was clad only in his boxers - and he snatched the quilt from the nearby sofa to wrap haphazardly around himself before approaching the window fully. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep as he climbed precariously onto the windowsill and out the window to join Sherlock on the fire escape, sitting with his back against the brick wall of the building and looking out at the drizzly, misty morning.

“Wasn’t feeling well,” Sherlock answered plainly in a low rumble, and John hummed.

“I’m sorry.”

He saw Sherlock shrug out of the corner of his eye. “I found the nausea pills in your jacket. They help,” he said, and raised his hand to take a drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs before letting it out in a thin, wispy stream.

The scent of burnt tobacco mingled with the petrichor. John wanted to bottle it.

“Good. I’m glad,” John said with a soft smile, before looking over at Sherlock directly. “Do you want anything to eat? Or drink?” he asked. He didn’t know how long Sherlock had been up; but judging by the small pile of cigarette butts slowly accumulating on a solid metal plate by Sherlock’s right leg, he’d been up for a while.

Sherlock took a deep breath, eyes falling to where his pale feet stuck out from under the fabric of his pyjama trousers, long toes flexing against the cold metal grating of the platform they sat on. “I may be able to stomach something,” he replied with only a hint of trepidation. “I don’t like to eat whilst on a case,” he explained, eyes shifting to examine the fag perched delicately between his index and middle fingers, “but since we’ve solved the mystery behind Blessi- Sutton’s death-” the amendment was made quickly, accompanied by an almost ponderous look from the detective “-I am willing to at least attempt to ingest something of substance.”

“You don’t eat on cases?” John asked, brow wrinkling in open concern.

Sherlock hummed in the affirmative. “Digestion slows me down.”

The look on John’s face morphed into one of dubious amusement. “That is wrong on so many levels,” he said with a dry puff of laughter and a shake of his head. “You need fuel, Sherlock. Food and sleep.”

The young man’s face contorted around a grimace. “I’ve never had a problem before.”

A brief silence ensued as John thought to himself, debating whether or not to give voice to the thought in his head. Then, knowing full well Sherlock likely already knew what he was thinking, he opted for full disclosure. “You were on drugs before,” he supplied, voice gentle; not reprimanding, merely a statement of fact.

Sherlock’s curly head tipped to the side after a moment in acquiescence, but he remained silent.

“Hunger suppressant, and stimulant,” John continued. “You’re a Chemist; you don’t need me to tell you this.”

“I’d argue that I do,” Sherlock countered, surprising John with the statement before he elaborated: “My two degrees in chemistry clearly haven’t made me wiser. The only reason I’m sober at this very moment is because of you.” It clearly wasn’t meant to be a heartfelt musing, the words spoken as though Sherlock had read them out of a chemistry text; consisting of pure, uncontested fact. But something in the vicinity of John’s heart tightened nonetheless, and his lips formed a fond smile.

“So I suppose that’s worth keeping you around for,” the detective quipped mildly, the corner of his lips quirking in a grin before they parted to accept the cigarette he once again brought to his lips.

John snorted. “Is that all I’m here for?” he asked bemusedly, eyes shifting to idly survey the street and the buildings that stretched out before them.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed as he lowered his cigarette and forced the light-grey smoke from his lungs, “that, and shooting people who try to kill me.”

The doctor laughed at that, letting his head fall back to gently rest against the brick wall behind him.

Companionable silence stretched between them, broken only occasionally by the distant sound of a car horn, the chirp of a bird taking refuge somewhere nearby from the light rain, and Sherlock’s deep exhales as he worked his way through his cigarette.

“Thank you,” the brunette said suddenly, prompting John to turn his head and lift an eyebrow in question.

“I-” Sherlock kept his eyes forward, looking at nothing in particular as his lips pursed in thought before he continued. “I never thanked you. For that- that thing you did. It was- good,” he managed, looking a touch awkward.

John didn’t try to tame his wry smile. “What, diving out from my cover to let everyone shoot at me instead of at you?” he asked bemusedly, and gave a short chuckle. “Don’t mention it.”

“Really, John,” Sherlock pressed, fixing the doctor with a hard, almost pleading look.

Something in John’s chest softened and his amused smile faded when he was met with the intensity in Sherlock’s eyes. “Of course,” he said, seriously now. “And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” His cheeks grew warm at the declaration.

Sherlock looked between John’s eyes, his own gaining a hint of warmth. “While I’m not condoning you putting yourself in harm’s way for my sake, I’ve known you long enough to know better than to argue,” he said, smiling softly when John huffed a short laugh. “But… yeah. I just wanted to thank you. Properly.”

John grinned. “I thought the thanks you gave me immediately after the fact was more than sufficient,” he murmured, a pleasant heat swirling in his gut at the memory of Sherlock’s hands on his face and his bottom lip between the man’s teeth.

Sherlock’s smile grew impish. “Trust me,” he muttered lowly, “if you weren’t concussed and I wasn’t feeling wretchedly ill, I would have thanked you further when we returned home.”

The man raised his cigarette once again to his mouth to take another drag, and John envied the orange-wrapped filter as it passed between those two perfectly plump and pale pink lips. The doctor’s eyes shifted to observe the burning end of the fag turn a lively orange, the cinders coaxed back to life by Sherlock’s steady intake of breath. Lungs filled to capacity, the brunette removed the cigarette from his mouth, a plume of smoke slowly leaving his agape mouth to flow upwards in thick tendrils where it was taken into Sherlock’s nose in a display of practised skill that had absolutely no right to be as sexy as it was. He expertly flicked away the ashes that had accumulated on the end of the cigarette before turning his head once again to look at John, seemingly unaware of the doctor’s inner turmoil as a thinner stream of smoke left both his mouth and nose.

“How’s your nose?” Sherlock asked, and John had to take a moment to reign in his thoughts.

“Hurts,” he murmured, going cross-eyed for a moment and catching for the first time a glimpse of angry purple blooming high on the side of his nose. He was sure what he couldn’t see without the aid of a mirror was far worse.

John was startled when Sherlock’s fingers moved to gently brush against his cheek just below his eyes, but he managed to remain carefully still. “Is it bad that I find it rather fetching?” Sherlock mused aloud, and John’s lips contorted in a bemused grin. 

“I won’t comment,” he teased, the scent of smoke stronger with Sherlock’s tobacco-stained fingers so close to his nose. “You’re allowed to think that, but I’m not going to go and get myself roughed up on a weekly basis just so you find me attractive.”

Sherlock scoffed gently, fingers retreating. “As if you need any help in that department,” he said lowly, and instead of either of them shying away from the comment, they shared a look, knowing and accepting and open. John smiled. They were past dancing around each other now,  _ finally _ , and a weight he hadn’t known was still on his shoulders finally lifted. He took a deep breath.

“What’s on the docket for today?” he asked suddenly, looking back out idly to the street as traffic began to slowly trickle in tandem with the gentle rain as the people of London began their morning commutes to work. The thought of work had him gnawing the inside of his cheek. “I have to contact the office,” he murmured, gut heavy with a sinking feeling. “God, if I still have a  _ job.” _ His eyes closed as a groan bubbled up from the back of his throat. He hadn’t contacted anyone yesterday, and he was sure his email inbox was flooded.

“Don’t fret about it,” Sherlock assured with a dismissive wave of the hand not preoccupied with his cigarette, “Mycroft will take care of it.”

_ Mycroft will take care of it. _ John wondered with mild agitation if he was destined to forever have his messes cleaned up by some nanny in a bespoke suit with a brolly in his hand who just slinked about in the shadows, unseen - except for when he wanted to kidnap John off the street for a chat in a creepy warehouse.

“He’s going to do that?” John asked derisively. “Last time we spoke I was under the impression that he wasn’t terribly  _ fond.” _

“Don’t be bothered. He’s dramatic,” Sherlock said, pointedly ignoring the mumbled  _ “must run in the family” _ that came from John. “Think of that as his…  _ ‘break his heart and I’ll break you’ _ talk,” he said with a heavy eye-roll.

John quirked an eyebrow. “Should I be expecting another, now that this is…-” he paused, looking at Sherlock, unaware of what exactly he’d been poised to say. He frowned ponderously. “Is this… official?” he asked, sounding silly even as he asked. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, though, merely giving a one-shouldered shrug.

“It could be, if you wanted it to be,” he said, and John caught the measured carefulness behind his words.

“Do  _ you _ want it to be?” he asked.

After a few beats of silence where Sherlock examined a spot on the knee of his trousers with intense focus, he took a breath. “ _ Boyfriends _ is a ridiculous term,” he said in lieu of an answer. “Partners sounds better.” After another moment of quiet, his opalescent eyes shifted to cautiously glance at John - who was grinning madly.

“Fine by me,” the blond replied softly, and basked in Sherlock’s pleased smile for a few indulgent moments before he sighed and looked back in through the window. “I’m famished,” he said on a breath, unfurling his legs to maneuver himself around and back through the window, careful not to let too much of his bare skin be revealed from under the blanket he held tightly around himself in an attempt to escape the damp, chill air. With a soft huff, he managed to make it back inside without incident, and turned around to summon the other man.

“You going to come in for breakfast?” he asked.

“In a moment,” Sherlock responded, words slightly muffled by what John assumed was his cigarette, once again. 

With a fond smile, John poked his head back through the window to place a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s jaw just below his ear, careful not to bump his nose. The action earned a pleased hum from Sherlock, which John felt in a subtle vibration beneath his lips. “Take your time,” he said when he pulled away, and turned to saunter across the floor of the room towards his dresser.

He pulled out a pair of jeans and a jumper before heading to the bathroom where he quickly relieved himself, brushed his teeth, prodded at the purple spreading over the bridge of his nose in the mirror and, as an afterthought, took a brief shower to scrub any unwanted remnants of the night prior from his body before donning his clothes. Fully dressed and refreshed, he emerged from the bathroom to find the main room a couple degrees warmer, the window shut, and the soft sounds of bare feet against linoleum emanating from the kitchen.

He found Sherlock before the stove, watching as steam slowly started to shoot from the spout of the kettle in a thin stream. As John approached the counter to retrieve cups from the cupboards above, the taller man switched off the burner just as the kettle began to sing.

“The sugar’s over there,” John said with a nod as he fixed the two mugs up with tea bags, “since I know you take it sweet enough to give you cavities.”

Sherlock hummed, not offended or at all worried about his oral hygiene in the slightest as he retrieved the porcelain canister from the back of the counter.

Together, they fixed their separate mugs and moved to the table, Sherlock sitting down while John set his mug on the surface before opening the fridge. “What are you hungry for?”

Eventually, they decided on eggs, toast, and John helped himself to a bit of ham that Sherlock declined with a polite shake of his head. John’s plate held about twice as much food as Sherlock’s, and he cleaned it while the brunette left a small bit of scrambled egg and some toast crusts, which John snatched away, lightheartedly reprimanding the younger man for  _ ‘leaving the best part.’ _

John got up to do the washing as Sherlock retired to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his hands, and John was distracted enough by his task at the sink that he made a small noise of surprise when after a couple minutes a warm, solid weight was pressed fully against his back. He smiled as lanky arms encircled his waist in a lazy embrace and the sharp jut of a chin nestled against his shoulder, the light feeling of wispy curls tickling his right ear.

He shut off the tap and abandoned the last fork in the sink in favour of turning around carefully in Sherlock’s arms, his own lifting to drape over the taller man’s shoulders. Sherlock dipped his head to press his forehead against John’s, and the doctor’s head tilted fondly as his smile softened.

“Hullo,” he said quietly, and Sherlock hummed before tilting his head to slot their mouths together in a gentle start to a tender kiss.

John let out a pleased sigh through his nose as his eyes fell closed, tilting his head just so - mindful of his nose - to better solidify the connection. His heart thudded excitedly in his chest at the light feeling of a wet tongue gliding across his lower lip in a silent request, and he answered wordlessly by parting his own lips to allow Sherlock in.

Their tongues mingled in a leisurely, filthy dance in and between their mouths, Sherlock’s leaving the tantalising tastes of spearmint toothpaste, overly-sweetened tea, and the barest hint of earthy tobacco in its wake. John withdrew enough to capture Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth and give a light, playful tug that had the detective making an adorable noise, all high-pitched and teetering on the edge of breathlessness. As Sherlock’s arms tightened fractionally around his waist, one of John’s hands found its way to Sherlock’s wild curls at the back of his head, which he resolutely refrained from tugging on, unsure if the man’s head was sore from the abuse his hair had received from both Matvei and Pavel the night before.

Then, of course, reading his mind, Sherlock’s lips separated from his with a soft, wet noise. “You don’t have to be careful,” he breathed, and the sound of his voice, breathy and low, made something low in John’s gut tighten. “I’m not fragile.”

“Course you’re not,” John replied, aiming for a tease, but his voice was just as breathy and he was soon rendered unable to speak as Sherlock re-engaged the kiss, this time with a touch more heat that didn’t go unnoticed by John. A sound just shy of desperation rose unbidden from the back of his throat, and he couldn’t have stopped the tightening of the hand in Sherlock’s hair if he’d wanted to.

Sherlock sighed indulgently and his teeth brushed provocatively along the length of John’s tongue in his mouth, and his own tongue did something wicked around the tip of John’s which had the doctor gasping, a sympathetic pang shooting south as he distantly longed for those sensations elsewhere.

“I’ve wanted to do this for  _ weeks, _ ” Sherlock admitted on a breath as he pressed forward to push John back against the counter, his lips parting from John’s to leave a searing trail of kisses along the man’s jaw to tug at his earlobe with his teeth.

John gasped again, head falling back to bare more skin willingly for Sherlock’s eager perusal. “I-I think I’ve wanted to, too,” he managed, and gave a breathy chuckle, grinning at the ceiling. “Just took me a little longer to come to the same co- _ ah- _ conclusion-” he made a surprised sound when Sherlock’s mouth latched onto a soft patch of skin just above his clavicle, teeth scraping, tongue laving generously as he suckled at the flesh in his mouth. Dazedly, John tugged hard at Sherlock’s curls, forcing the younger man to halt his attacking John’s collarbone, and he met John’s eyes with an indignant pout that looked unfairly adorable with how his pouty lips were spit-slick and kissed red, eyes dark, hair already mussed. 

“What?” he asked, almost whining, and John huffed a laugh.

“Are you leaving marks on me, you twat?” His smile was one of pure adoration. “I have a job, you know. Showing up with a hickey isn't exactly professional.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pressed impossibly closer. “Just wear a scarf,” he mumbled, already clearly distracted as his eyes honed in on John’s mouth. “I wouldn’t be worried about it - people will be looking at your  _ nose _ , anyway,” he said, and gasped when the comment earned a sharp tug to his curls.

“Shut up,” John murmured fondly, and Sherlock grinned wildly as he dipped his head once more.

“Gladly.”

John didn’t know how many minutes passed as they resumed their heated snogging, only that his concentration was broken by insistent fingers creeping under the hem of his jumper to sneak up his back, pushing the garment up with it.

Sherlock’s mouth was persistent against his own, tongue invasive and teeth sharp and eager as they nipped at John’s lips and tongue in a fight for dominance, but John managed to pull back for the briefest of moments to allow his jumper to be tugged off. “I just got dressed,” he tried to contest, but his complaint was swallowed by Sherlock’s eager mouth again as the sound of the discarded garment landing softly on the linoleum floor briefly joined the noises of their heavy breathing and the quiet, damp sounds of their mouths. John’s lips parted in a gasp when Sherlock’s hands moved to his front to rake his blunt fingernails down his chest and his abdomen, and John barely had time to feel self conscious about the thin layer of softness that had settled around his hips and stomach in his time since the army before Sherlock’s mouth broke away from his and went straight to his shoulder.

John couldn’t even make a noise, his eyes going wide with realisation as Sherlock’s tongue prodded experimentally at the knotted tissue at the centre of the intricate starburst at his shoulder, and it was strange, because John couldn’t even really feel anything except for Sherlock’s warm breaths gusting over the skin above where the scar lay, but it was still… he didn’t know what it was. But the reverence with which Sherlock’s lips ghosted over the spiderweb-like tissues, his tongue darting out on occasion as if he were attempting to memorise the feel of this proof John’s mortality and fragility against his lips, and the taste of it on his tongue - it sent a pang of something stronger than arousal through him.

John’s breath was coming to him in short gasps as his vision blurred, a sting forming behind his eyes as unbidden tears welled up to obscure his vision. The intimacy was overwhelming, and his hand, still buried in Sherlock’s hair, tightened.

_ “Sherlock,” _ he managed, voice not much more than a croak, and the other man rose his head, concern flooding his face at the sight of John’s damp eyes.

Sherlock blinked, eyes gaining a small bit of focus as they took in John’s turmoil. “John,” he started, “I’m sor- _ mmph!”  _ His words were cut preemptively short as John smashed their mouths together roughly, all traces of finesse vanishing as John’s hands scrambled for the hem of Sherlock’s borrowed shirt. He felt the moment when a single tear escaped to trail hotly down his cheek and pointedly ignored it as he fisted the white fabric covering Sherlock’s upper half and gave a tug.

Sherlock made a noise of surprise and desperation before pulling away long enough to let John pull the shirt off of him, but instead of resuming the animalistic assault on each other’s mouths, John opted to take his turn exploring, and peppered kisses down the pale column of Sherlock’s neck.

He distantly heard Sherlock breathe his name above him when his teeth nipped at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, the flesh blossoming into a lovely red as his mouth moved onward, and downward. Sherlock’s fingers grasped at the short blond strands at the back of John’s head, and the doctor didn’t have the heart to tell him that it rather smarted, given his concussion and all - but he hardly cared, his adrenaline and arousal and overwhelming need were successfully overpowering every other feeling.

“John,” Sherlock breathed again reverently, and John hummed back against the skin at the top of the man’s sternum. His hands trailed in a loving caress up and over Sherlock’s ribs, fingers slowly feeling the grooves between each bone, mapping out the contours of the man’s body with his hands and his mouth simultaneously, lips trailing down and off to one side when he ran into a light smattering of dark hair. The detour brought him to one dusky pink nipple, which he experimentally laved his tongue over, prepared for Sherlock to push his head away - because in his handful of experiences with men in club toilets or dark dorm rooms or in the army, he knew some liked it while others didn’t.

What he hadn’t been prepared for was the borderline  _ squeak _ that sounded from above him, followed by a wordless, high-pitched utterance and the tightening of fingers in his hair. Grinning triumphantly, John covered Sherlock’s nipple with his mouth and gently sucked, his tongue teasing the hardened bud of flesh in his mouth, and Sherlock’s back arched, pushing his chest further against John’s face.

_ “Ah-  _ oh my God,” the man said breathily, sounding surprised, and John hummed, releasing Sherlock’s flesh with a soft, wet  _ ‘pop’ _ before moving to the other pectoral to lavish the same attention upon the other small rosy bud - this time adding a hint of teeth, which actually had Sherlock’s hips bucking forward once as his voice hitched. “Oh  _ God, _ John, _John_ -”

“Sensitive, are you?” John asked gravelly, thoroughly amused, against Sherlock’s chest. He could feel the man’s heart hammering under his mouth.

“Mmnh,” was the only sound Sherlock made in response.

One of John’s hands crept around to settle at the small of Sherlock’s back and pressed there encouragingly, stifling a gasp as Sherlock’s hips ground against his own, making John very aware of two  _ very _ prominent erections as his own came into contact with the top of Sherlock’s thigh, while Sherlock’s rutted against his hip. Getting a bit carried away, John’s hand then dipped lower, fingers sneaking under the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms to curve over the  _ lovely _ swell of his bare arse and give a firm squeeze to one cheek. His lips curled in a predatory grin as he came to a realisation and heard another squeak of surprise radiate from above him.

“You’re not wearing any pants,” he observed, abandoning the abused flesh of Sherlock’s nipple to raise his head and nip at the man’s jaw. “You cheeky thing,” he added, punctuating it with another indulgent squeeze of Sherlock’s yielding flesh.

And Sherlock giggled - actually  _ giggled, _ the sound bubbling up and spilling out of him, high-pitched and giddy and manic and impossibly, unfairly adorable, but John only had a few moments to bask in the sound of it before a canting of his own hips made the sound end in a choked noise of pleasure.

“I swear,” the man gasped, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a beaming smile, “I didn’t-  _ unh- _ plan for this-” His hands grasped John’s shoulders, mindful of his scar, stabilising himself as John grew more determined in rolling their hips together.

“I certainly wasn’t,” John huffed in frustration, realising his jeans were making it incredibly difficult to achieve the friction he was seeking. But just as he removed his hand from Sherlock’s trousers to shed his own, Sherlock’s hands were flying in a flurry of pale fingers to tug at his waistband and fumble with the fastenings. John was pleased for about two seconds before he heard Sherlock curse, and looked down to see the man’s hands shaking so badly they could hardly grasp at his zipper. 

_ “Fuck,” _ the brunette cursed in frustration, “this-  _ ugh _ \- come on,” he nearly growled, stepping away and grabbing John’s wrist to tug him away from the counter and into the main room.

John followed, laughing giddily, and tugged his wrist from Sherlock’s grip so he could undo his jeans, which he managed with little incident, and when he looked up, Sherlock was already on his bed, on his knees, reaching out impatiently to grasp John’s arm, face openly portraying his desperation as he tugged the blond towards him. John went with a grin, ending up standing with his knees pressed against the side of the bed, jeans undone and pushed down low on his hips as Sherlock kneeled on the mattress in front of him, grabbing his face to kiss him again. The height-difference was corrected a bit by how Sherlock was situated, their faces nearly the same level, which made it a bit easier for John to dominate the kiss this time around.

He hummed lowly as his hands moved to grip Sherlock’s slim waist to pull their torsos together, and Sherlock whimpered as John claimed his mouth with deliberate strokes of his tongue and well-timed nips of his teeth. The brunette took his hands away from John’s face and inched their bodies apart so he could access the newly-exposed portion of John’s body now that his jeans were pushed partway down.

The kiss broke when John gasped at a large hand pressing firmly against the bulge at the front of his boxers, and he looked down in awe at Sherlock’s hand pressing against his length through the thin fabric, and then back up at Sherlock’s face, which looked more than a little stricken. His pale hand shifted experimentally to better cup the hard length of John’s cock through his boxers, and he gave a noisy breath of urgency before both of his hands were pushing frenziedly at John’s jeans. 

“Off,” he demanded,  _ “off-” _ and John didn’t need to be told a third time. 

“You too then,” he urged breathlessly, and as he stepped back to push down his jeans, his eyes remained unabashedly trained on Sherlock as the other man wasted no time in shoving the waistband of his trousers down his thighs, and John froze as Sherlock’s length, nestled in a thatch of dark, wiry hair, flushed and hard and long and slim and fucking  _ perfect _ sprung free from the fabric to hang heavily between his legs. While his staring may have been appreciated on some level, his hesitation was clearly not, as Sherlock gave him an indignant look.

_ “Please _ , do hurry, John,” he implored, somehow managing to sound haughty as he gracelessly untangled his shins and clumsy feet from his pyjama bottoms. John heeded the reminder and enthusiastically shimmied out of his jeans, efficiently pushing his pants down at the same time, managing to successfully avoid tripping out of the bunched up fabric at his feet. He was pulling his second foot from the wadded up pant-leg when a whimper from the bed caught his attention. Sherlock was half-sitting, half-lying back on the mattress, hair a wild mess above his dark, wide eyes, which were fixed on John’s groin. John smiled smugly as he strutted forward, never having been one to be self-conscious about anything regarding his physical appearance save for his scar - but his scar wasn’t the focus at the moment.

Wordlessly, Sherlock reached out and tugged John onto the bed and on top of him as he laid back, his long legs already spread wantonly, knees coming up to frame John’s thighs as he hauled the man up for a searing, but brief kiss.

“You’re incredible,” the younger of the pair breathed, and John huffed a soft breath.

“Have you seen yourself?” he asked back, looking down the length of their bodies to where he was holding himself carefully mere inches above Sherlock. Sherlock’s cock was resting, hard and flushed, against the sharp jut of one hipbone, while John’s, slightly shorter but possessing substantially more girth, hung intimidatingly between them.

A set of fingers hooked underneath John’s chin and gently guided his face back up, and he was met with a smile so dazzling and genuine in its unbridled joy that his breath caught in his throat. He surged forward, longing for a taste of that smile, however illogical the thought was, but he could swear he tasted  _ sweetness _ on the tongue that eased into his mouth. 

The kiss was more subdued, indulgent, and it turned into an open-mouthed pant from both of them when, in response to an encouraging hand at John’s back, the blond lowered his body to press flush to Sherlock’s before he gave one smooth undulation of his hips.

Sherlock’s head tipped back into the pillow under it as he sighed, pushing his own hips up to meet John’s leisurely thrusts. John took the opportunity to kiss wetly down Sherlock’s exposed trachea before laving his tongue over the prominent suprasternal notch, giving a soft, breathy moan against Sherlock’s skin as their hips collided again in a smooth wave.

But the slide was dry, and quickly growing uncomfortable. John looked up, ready to push himself up to retrieve the bottle of lubricant from where he kept it in his bedside table drawer, only to find the bottle hastily shoved at his face. He laughed as he pushed himself up a bit and took it, swiftly opening the cap and pausing their rhythm.

“Bloody genius, you are,” he murmured fondly as he sat back to pour a bit of fluid into his palm before lowering his hand to pump his fist twice over his own prick to coat it thoroughly, exhaling noisily through his nose at the sensation, but before he could get carried away, he deposited a little more lube into his palm and, without preamble, reached to take Sherlock’s cock in his hand. He immediately felt the difference in girth, but the hot, heavy solidity of the shaft in his grip was a familiar sensation, and he gave the length of it a confident stroke.

A breathy noise from the head of the bed had John’s lips breaking into a smile that was bordering on predatory as he took in the sight of Sherlock, legs falling open invitingly, arms raised above his head with one hand grasping at his own hair as he pushed his hips into John’s fist. The blond wet his lips and, on the next upstroke, swiped his thumb over the already-weeping head, collecting the pearlescent bead of fluid that had gathered there, and the action made Sherlock gasp.

“How do you like it?” John asked, voice gruff as he gave another smooth, firm stroke. 

“Mnh- a little faster-  _ ah, yes, _ ” Sherlock sighed when John promptly changed his tactics. “And a bit- bit looser with your fist-”

John knew the moment he’d gotten it right when the brunette gasped and let out a whine, the muscles in his abdomen visibly tensing as a flush bloomed high on his chest to creep up his neck and colour his cheeks. 

_ “Oh _ my God,” Sherlock whimpered as his head turned to the side, and John watched, transfixed, as the younger man bit into his own bicep to stifle a cry.

“Let me hear you,” the doctor said desperately, and his own cock throbbed achingly between his legs but he hardly cared, because he wasn’t going to miss this for anything.

“John,” Sherlock panted, his eyes opening and aiming a lust-filled gaze at the blond. “Ah, God,  _ John _ ,” he said again, his hips twitching up into John’s fist as he gasped. His breath came in pants, leaving him with small, pathetic sounds as his head tossed from side to side on the pillow, and John watched on as the man fought to hold himself back. Evidently, Sherlock’s efforts proved futile when, after another minute of John steadily working him with short, quick, light strokes, the man’s eyes shot open and he gasped.  _ “Stop! _ Oh my God, stop,” he said frantically, and let out a whine when John pulled his hand away.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, startled, but Sherlock shook his head.

“Fuck,” the younger man mumbled, the muscles in his abdomen jumping, cock leaking against where it had fallen against his hip again, and John observed his bollocks had drawn up tightly against his body. After a moment where Sherlock attempted to catch his breath, he swallowed. “Nothing- nothing wrong,” he said airily, and cleared his throat. “Just- not how I’d prefer to come, is all.”

Releasing his breath in an airy chuckle, John wiped his hand surreptitiously on the duvet next to him as he inquired. “How’d you like to come, then?” he asked with a grin, his cleaned hand moving to stroke indulgently along the inside of Sherlock’s thigh.

After a satisfied hum from the detective at the contact, the man spoke again. “Well, I- um.” He hesitated, and John saw his cheeks burn a bright crimson. It didn’t take him long to connect the dots when the brunette’s eyes shot to John’s member, which throbbed once under the man’s gaze.

“You… are you sure?” John asked, though he was already far past sold on the idea; if his cock could get any harder, it would have.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed with an enthusiastic nod, eyes devouring the older man’s length. “Absolutely.” The word came out in a dark purr that sent a shiver down John’s spine. He grinned wolfishly.

“Then I am  _ more _ than happy to oblige,” he said, and reached for the bottle of lube once again.

As he shuffled down the bed a bit more and moved to upend the bottle, Sherlock made a hesitant noise, catching his attention. “Ah, just… well. I should tell you…” There was a moment of quiet as John looked at him expectantly. Sherlock’s cheeks flushed impossibly deeper and he averted his eyes. “I’ve- I’m not very experienced in this area,” he finally managed.

“... Okay,” John said carefully after a beat.

“Which is to say, I’m not experienced. At all. In this,” Sherlock amended, and John’s eyebrows receded into his hairline.

“In what, any of this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely between them, and Sherlock pursed his lips.

“In any of this,” he confirmed embarrassedly, and John would probably be wondering just how the hell Sherlock had gone this long without being properly fucked if he weren’t so busy having a mild crisis over the fact that Sherlock Holmes was a virgin and John was his  _ first. _ Or, was about to be his first, he supposed, not without a grand amount of hope.

“Oh.” John’s voice cracked on the syllable, and he cleared his throat. “I mean… that’s fine. That’s more than fine,” he reassured honestly with a small smile. “That’s… kind of great, actually.”

Sherlock raised a dubious eyebrow. “Ah, yes, a man well into his twenties who  _ hasn’t _ been shagged; every man’s dream,” he drawled mordantly, and John’s smile widened.

“Actually, it’s rather hot,” he said, cheeks warming, and his smile gained a dark edge. “Means I get to be the one to show you everything.” He watched with pleasure as Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally. “And I do mean  _ everything, _ ” he said in a low purr, something primal lurching inside him when Sherlock visibly shivered. He gave a low chuckle and reached up to the head of the bed to snatch the pillow Sherlock’s head wasn’t resting on, already knowing  _ exactly _ what he wanted to do. “Do you trust me?” he asked, and received a blink of those dark, wide eyes and a small nod in response. “Then lift up your hips.”

Sherlock’s feet pushed against the mattress without question and John folded the pillow in half before positioning it beneath the man’s lower back, guiding Sherlock back down once it was situated.

“Now,” he said, stroking both hands over and back along the insides of the brunette’s milk-white thighs, “relax. And know that you can stop me anytime you want to. Yeah?”

Sherlock looked like he was about to make a snarky comment, but wisely decided against it and simply nodded instead. John smiled.

_ “Relax,” _ he said again, softer, and lowered his head to press his lips tenderly to Sherlock’s thigh. He smiled against the soft skin when he heard the man exhale and felt the tension leave his body, and he kissed a path to the crease of his thigh and his groin, where he hummed indulgently at the intoxicating, undeniably masculine scents of musk and sex. His hands moved to gently grasp each of Sherlock’s arse cheeks, and he heard the man above him gasp softly as he pulled them gently apart to reveal the dusky, puckered hole of Sherlock’s entrance.

Not hearing any protests so far, John swiped his tongue slowly over Sherlock’s perineum, before laving the flat of his tongue directly over the most private spot on Sherlock’s body.

“Oh my God,” Sherlock said hurriedly on a breath, and John smiled; it certainly didn’t sound like a demand to stop.

“You okay?” he asked cheekily.

“Absolutely fi- _ oh, Jesus, _ ” Sherlock’s initial breathy reply turned into a squeak which promptly devolved into a guttural moan when John prodded insistently at the man’s entrance with a pointed tongue. 

The doctor hummed and pulled Sherlock’s cheeks further apart with his hands in order to press his lips to the man’s skin, initiating something that was not unlike a kiss he might share with Sherlock’s  _ mouth _ , and the detective let out a choked-off sound of surprise. Much to John’s delight, Sherlock’s hips shifted, tilting upward just a touch, making John’s task that much easier as he licked a broad stripe up his cleft before resuming his attempt to loosen Sherlock up with gentle licks.

A minute later and the tip of John’s tongue managed to dip inside the puckered hole and he continued pressing deeper as Sherlock was reduced to a twitching pile of confused pleasure above him, babbling half-nonsense mingled with raspy moans of John’s name.

“JohnJohnJoh- oh, fuck, oh-  _ please _ ,” Sherlock panted as John forced his tongue as deep as he was able to, curling it to stroke along what he could reach of Sherlock’s inner walls when he was able. It was one of his guilty pleasures, this filthy, lewd act; but while he thoroughly enjoyed wringing these desperate sounds from Sherlock, there was a bit more preparation to be done before the main event, and John’s cock throbbed eagerly in tandem with a high-pitched whine that sounded from the head of the bed. He ultimately decided that he’d choose a later time to be patient; they had all the time in the world now. Someday soon he’d gladly spend hours taking Sherlock apart with his mouth and hands - but right now, they were both keyed up and had been for  _ weeks _ and John’s suspicion that they were both growing impatient was confirmed when a large hand settled on the top of his head and tugged at his hair.

The blond pulled back with a smile. “You want me to stop?” he asked in a tease, before delving back in for another indulgent few seconds of wriggling his tongue in Sherlock’s arse, grinning triumphantly when he was rewarded with a desperate cry from the younger man.

“I-  _ ah! _ \- no… yes…  _ ah- _ yes,” the man managed between his soft gasps, fingers growing tighter in his hair, and John pulled back with an obscene, wet  _ smack _ to gaze up the length of Sherlock’s body to see the lovely flush that covered his cheeks, neck, and upper chest. 

“Do you not enjoy it?” John asked, not hurt, but curious, and smiled cheekily when Sherlock shook his head enthusiastically.

“No- quite the contrary,” the brunette assured, his chest still heaving. “I just- well. I want…”

John raised an eyebrow silently. “You want… what?”

His grin broadened when Sherlock’s blush deepened, before he huffed and tossed his head back onto his pillow and threw an arm up to cover his eyes as he whimpered.

“Tell me what you want,” the older man purred salaciously, and dipped his head to kiss and nip teasingly at the sensitive, soft skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh.

That earned a yelp from the detective, followed by a haughty huff. “I was  _ hoping _ you’d eventually  _ fuck me _ at some point,” he said, and John shivered at the explative sounding in the man’s low, rumbling baritone, “and I would very much like it if you could  _ get on with it already.” _ What was clearly supposed to be a contemptuous demand turned into more of a desperate plea, and John tutted as he left his position and sat back up on his haunches, giving Sherlock’s thigh a gentle, playful slap.

“Bossy,” he chastised, without heat, and snorted a laugh when the younger man glared at him - and it was extra amusing considering Sherlock was in absolutely no position to be giving orders, lying flushed in pleasure before John with his legs spread widely and his arse bared for all the world to see. Nevertheless, John wasn’t going to make the man suffer any longer, and he grabbed for the lube once again to slick up three of his digits before taking a fortifying breath. Sherlock was watching him carefully, hungrily, and the hair on the back of John’s neck stood on end. He looked between his glistening fingers and Sherlock’s entrance, the skin around it having turned a fetching shade of red from John’s ministrations. After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock huffed an annoyed breath.

“John, I am  _ hardly _ a stranger to having things shoved up my arse. You’ll remember the toy I have tucked away in the back of my pants drawer,” he reminded, and John did remember; he’d come across that sleek, black silicon rod when rummaging through Sherlock’s things for clothes to bring him mere days ago. God, had that really only been a few days ago? “Just-” Sherlock sighed shortly and laid back fully on the mattress again, closing his eyes as his face tipped back to face the ceiling “-get on with it, will you? Please.”

The  _ please _ at the end was what spurred John into motion. He placed his dry hand on Sherlock’s thigh in a soothing gesture as the other reached to gently trail his slicked middle finger over the man’s entrance, the first touch of the cool gel prompting Sherlock to gasp. John’s touch quickly warmed, though, as he pressed the fleshy part of the end of this finger against Sherlock’s hole and began moving it in small circles, adding pressure with each rotation. A breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding left his lungs as Sherlock sighed, and John sucked his bottom lip between his teeth as he felt the initial resistance begin to give just so. 

Sherlock hummed above him, hips shifting just slightly in a move that was either indulgent, or an attempt to get more comfortable - but his hum turned into a breathy sound of surprise when John increased the pressure behind his finger and the tip of it breached the tight opening. The brunette’s eyes opened to look blankly at the ceiling and he forced his breaths to even out a bit when John didn’t stop, but slowly pulled his digit out and pushed it back in, further this time. 

It was a slow process that consisted of several soft gasps and sighs from Sherlock, but eventually John was thrusting the one finger slowly in and out of Sherlock as deep as he could.

“Another,” Sherlock said on a sigh, breaking John out of the trance he’d been in as he watching his finger disappear again and again inside of Sherlock’s body. The doctor swallowed and nodded before pulling his hand back and letting his ring finger join the fray, slowly pushing both fingers in.

This time, Sherlock made a slightly uncomfortable sound when John’s fingers broke past the first tight ring of muscle, and the older man froze. “Are you alright?” he asked, and Sherlock flapped a hand at him.

“Fine,” he breathed, with effort. “Continue.”

And John did. Slowly, methodically, he worked his fingers inside Sherlock, pressing deeper with each leisurely thrust and waiting until he got them both as deep as he could before beginning to spread them apart inside Sherlock, scissoring them open as much as he could. Sherlock’s breathing quickened, having quickly grown accustomed to the added digit, and was soon giving minute twitches of his hips to match John’s thrusts, paired with soft, breathy moans.

“John,” the man panted after another minute, “c’mon, keep-  _ ah, _ yes, that’s-” his words were cut off when John withdrew his hand and returned with three fingers this time, pushing insistently against Sherlock’s eager entrance, and the man lying on the bed hissed softly at the mild burn that accompanied John’s fingers breaching him again. “I’m  _ fine,” _ he said before John got the chance to question him. “Just- do it. Please, John.”

The look that Sherlock gave him, dark and desperate and pleading, had John’s heart hammering wildly against his ribcage. So he didn’t hesitate in pressing further, even though he winced every time Sherlock did at the stretch. It was at this point that John endlessly thanked his extensive medical training, because when, after a minute, his fingers were finally buried to the second knuckle, he hooked them inside Sherlock to seek out that firm little bundle of nerves he knew to be just about--

An incoherent sound of surprise left Sherlock in a loud gasp, and his hips twitched as John pressed against the sensitive nub of his prostate. The doctor’s cock gave an eager throb when Sherlock tightened impossibly tight around his fingers. “Fuck, Sherlock,” he breathed, easing up on the pressure and, now that Sherlock was momentarily distracted from the pain, working his fingers just a touch deeper.

He repeated the action - applying stimulation to Sherlock’s prostate and working his fingers deeper in tandem - until finally, he was thrusting all three fingers in and out of the brunette, twisting his wrist, spreading his fingers apart, and brushing against that bundle of nerves on every other stroke. Sherlock was all but  _ writhing _ on the bed at this point, a light sweat having broken out on his brow, pale hands fisted in the sheets at his sides, abdominal muscles clenching in accordance with each teasing brush against his prostate, and his hips were rolling of their own accord to meet each push of John’s fingers. 

John, meanwhile, was fucking  _ enraptured _ . He’d effectively reduced the brilliant man beneath him to a whining, pleading, wanton mess, his neglected cock twitching against his hip, his head tossing back and forth on his pillow.

“Jo-ohn,” Sherlock beckoned, voice breaking on the blond’s name, “please, I’m- ‘mready,” he slurred. 

“You sure?” John asked, priding himself in keeping Sherlock’s comfort and safety at the forefront of his mind - even though he was teetering on the edge of desperation, his voice breathy and words rushed - even as he began slowly withdrawing his fingers in anticipation.

“Yes,  _ yes _ , I’m sure. Oh, God- mmh.”

John watched with fascination as Sherlock’s entrance, beautifully stretched, contracted eagerly around nothing once his fingers were removed. He covertly wiped his slick fingers on the duvet before reaching once again for the lube - but was stopped by a hand with a metallic foil square thrusting out towards him. He blinked. “Oh,” he said, a bit stupidly - of course.  _ Obviously _ they were meant to use a condom.

“Bit late for it now,” Sherlock said with a wry smile, still struggling to catch his breath. “I should have had one on since the start. But-” he deposited the contraceptive in John’s outstretched palm before lying back on the bed again with a huff “-there’s nothing for it now. Better safe than sorry.”

John’s awareness came back to him; what they’d done so far had been pretty low-risk stuff, where diseases were concerned. And then he realised that, while Sherlock had taken drugs intravenously mere days ago,  _ he himself _ had had another person’s blood on him just last night. He didn’t know if it’d gotten into wherever he’d been bleeding from in his nose, or into his eye, or into somewhere else. They’d both have to get tested.

_ Later today, _ he resolved; because with what they’d done so far, they were both already fucked anyway if one of them had something. Having protected anal penetrative sex wasn’t likely to put either of them any more at risk than they already were. That may have been the endorphin-addled part of his brain talking… but alas.

“You’re thinking awfully loudly,” Sherlock’s murmur broke John from his musings, and instead of sounding annoyed, the statement sounded almost…  _ fond. _ And when the doctor looked down at the brunette, he was met with a smile that was equally as fond, framed by pink cheeks under shining eyes surrounded by sweat-damp curls.

“We’ll both get tested later on today,” John said softly, and Sherlock nodded.

“Agreed.”

They shared a soft smile, which was broken when John brought the foil packet to his mouth to tear it open with his teeth, and as he did so, he witnessed Sherlock’s eyes darken once again, his long body shifting in anticipation as he watched John roll the latex smoothly onto his length and quickly slather himself with a generous amount of lubricant. John bit the inside of his cheek at the first touches to his neglected prick, but he didn’t indulge himself any further than giving himself one firm stroke under the guise of making sure the condom was all the way on, before he hedged forward on his knees. He took a fortifying breath.

“Come here,” Sherlock said softly, and John looked up to see the man reaching for him. With a small smile, John went, placing one hand on the mattress beside Sherlock’s torso to hold himself up as two large hands framed his face and brought him in for a slow, almost chaste kiss. He felt Sherlock hum against his lips as he brought the head of his cock with his free hand to brush teasingly along the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, both of them making a sound when he caught on the rim of the younger man’s entrance. “Quit teasing,” Sherlock murmured between kisses, and John chuckled against his mouth before he obediently positioned himself, and pushed.

They both gasped as John increased the pressure, the bulbous head of his cock just starting to breach; but his prick was a bit more substantial than three fingers, and  _ definitely _ more to take in than the slim toy he’d found in Sherlock’s dresser. Finally, the tight ring of muscle gave way and John grunted and broke the kiss when his tip popped smoothly past, the sphincter squeezing tightly around his shaft once it was past the widest part of his head, trapping him inside. “Fucking  _ hell, _ ” he breathed, forcing himself to stay still, because while the incredible tightness - literally  _ virginal _ tightness, his mind unhelpfully supplied - was damn near overwhelming in itself, he knew it was probably worse for Sherlock at the moment.

He opened his eyes to find Sherlock’s eyes shut, jaw clenched, breathing shallow as it hissed between his barred teeth. “Gimme ‘moment,” he muttered without John having to question, and John, wanting to distract the man from the discomfort any way he could, lowered his head to pepper sweet kisses all over his face.

Sherlock hummed after a few moments and maneuvered his head to capture John’s mouth in a sweet kiss, and John felt the moment the man’s breathing steadied out. “More,” the brunette demanded quietly, and John obliged, both of them groaning into each other’s mouths when he rocked forward. They continued, alternating between kissing and just sharing breath between them, as John rocked his hips and gently coaxed his way in, inch by inch, pausing when Sherlock winced and continuing when he bossily demanded he do so, until, finally, he felt his hips make contact with the soft, yielding flesh of Sherlock’s arse.

The doctor groaned loudly at the realisation that he was buried to the hilt in the  _ tightest fucking thing _ he’d ever had the pleasure of having under him - and all other things that had ever been under him, or over him, or  _ in  _ him, were rendered completely null and void. Because this was it.  _ This _ was it - this was the pinnacle of John’s entire life; buried balls-deep in Sherlock Goddamn-Fucking Holmes. It was  _ unbelievably _ tight and  _ hot _ and he could feel Sherlock’s muscles spasming intermittently around him as the other man adjusted to his substantial girth.

Sherlock’s face conveyed his surprise - his lips were parted as he breathed raggedly, eyes open and staring at nothing, flush still present high on his cheeks.

“You okay?” John asked, staying absolutely still, face clouding ever so slightly with concern as it fought past his arousal.

After blowing out a heavy breath Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes,” he articulated, voice rough. “Just… full. Very full. Not- used to this.” He shivered as his muscles gave another unintentional twitch around John’s hard length, causing the doctor to clench his own jaw. “Sorry,” Sherlock breathed. “I just- I need a moment.”

John hummed his acknowledgement, as he was rather lost for words at the moment, and lowered himself onto his forearms as carefully as he could to press gentle kisses to Sherlock’s jaw. His lips trailed over the man’s skin, down his neck, to his earlobe, and he felt the tension once again gradually ease from the brunette’s body. Soft hums mingled with Sherlock’s breaths, and the man brought his knees up to frame John’s thighs to give a soft squeeze. John smiled against the man’s cheek.

Sherlock turned his head, then, and caught John’s lips in a tender kiss. One of Sherlock’s hands held the back of John’s head while the other moved to the small of John’s back, prompting the blond to shiver as the kiss steadily gained a touch of heat. Soon John was giving a soft whine, his muscles straining with the effort of keeping still as Sherlock’s tongue invaded his mouth, his actions holding an edge of desperation - but finally, just as John thought he was going to faint from the effort of not moving, Sherlock gave another squeeze of his legs framing John’s hips and withdrew from the kiss enough to speak against John’s lips.

_ “Move.” _

That word, breathy and rumbling and urgent, was all John needed to hear. The shorter man pulled his hips carefully back, just an inch or so, giving a low groan at the unforgiving clench of Sherlock around him, as Sherlock simultaneously gave a strangled sound, but wordlessly encouraged John to continued with a minute twitch of his own hips. John would have stopped to question the other to be absolutely sure, but he was so far gone by this point that he didn’t bother to question any order that he was given, verbal or not. He blew out a breath when he rocked his hips forward again, pressing his full length back in as deep as he was able on a single, smooth stroke, hissing at the grip of Sherlock’s body.

The two men shared air, mouths open and pressing wetly against one another’s in a feeble attempt at a proper kiss every few moments as John slowly, methodically pulled his hips back and pushed them forward again, unsheathing a bit more of himself every time. And when he’d finally managed to make it so that just the head of his cock was within Sherlock, the slide back in had grown a touch easier, a bit smoother, and Sherlock himself was no longer making sounds of discomfort, but was sighing noisily, humming, and muttering soft words of encouragement when he wasn’t too busy cursing or giving different inflections of John’s name, all of which were lovely to John’s ears.

“John,” the man said again, likely for the hundredth time, “you can-  _ fuck,  _ you can go a bit faster now, you know.” By now the brunette was rolling his hips up to meet John’s with every slow thrust, John’s own hips undulating in a smooth, constant motion, pulling all the way back before thrusting in again. He was perfectly content to relish in the smooth glide and lovely, tight hold of Sherlock’s body; but at the suggestion to move faster, he didn’t hesitate. He hummed and pulled back, before snapping his hips forward sharply without warning, and smiled at the high-pitched cry that the action drew from Sherlock.

Muscles clamped tightly around him and John grit his teeth as he withdrew, tilted his hips to change the angle just so, and thrust forward again. This time, Sherlock’s whole body jolted, his eyes going wide as the man’s cock expertly nudged against his prostate.

“Oh my God-!” Sherlock began, but another of John’s thrusts had his words cutting off into a strangled sound.

John remained rather quiet, himself, jamming his hands under Sherlock to hold his shoulders for a bit of extra purchase as he dipped his head and concentrated on his rhythm. His breathing steadied and was only interrupted by the occasional soft grunt of exertion as his hips sped up, ears tuned in to the soft, wet sounds of his hips making contact with Sherlock’s arse every time he buried himself deep, and the sharp cries and whines and moans of his name emanating from the man below him. Two sets of blunt fingernails suddenly scratched along his back, making John groan as they left stinging trails over his skin. He raised his head to see Sherlock’s head thrown back, eyes clenched shut, mouth open, neck bared.

Taking the fine opportunity for what it was, John’s mouth attached to the milky skin of the man’s throat and laid claim there with bites and licks and kisses left in a stuttering, staccato rhythm over the pale expanse, only pausing to bite roughly into the juncture of the man’s shoulder as the doctor’s thrusts sped up to a punishing pace.

The wail that tore from Sherlock’s throat was  _ devastated _ , his nails digging further into John’s skin just below his shoulder blades, his feet rising off the bed for his legs to tightly encircle John’s waist, which changed the angle and had Sherlock crying out even louder.

“Oh my God Oh mygodohmygod  _ John- JohnJohnJohn _ -” it was an endless litany, John’s name falling from Sherlock’s lips like a prayer, and John let go of the flesh between his teeth to raise his head and press sloppy, reverent kisses to Sherlock’s open mouth.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, breath erratic as his hips pistoned away, “my God, you are-  _ God _ .” He didn’t even have words for what Sherlock was. Incredible, astounding, gorgeous, perfect; those words didn’t even come close. Impossible, maybe. Indescribable. But he was unable to verbalise his thoughts when Sherlock’s eyes, pupils eclipsing the green-grey-blue of his irises and incandescent in the soft morning light in the room, looked at him as if he- well. As if he were the world. That was the only way John could describe the awe-filled, dazzling look in his eyes. Something in his chest tightened painfully in tandem with the coil of heat which steadily intensified in his lower gut.

It crept up on him; he gasped as he felt sharp jolts of pleasure shooting through his body, his toes curling into the duvet as he recognised the beginnings of his climax weren’t very far off, and he looked into Sherlock’s eyes urgently. “How close?” he asked, not needing to elaborate further, and Sherlock made a desperate sound before merely giving a nod.

John quickly wormed a hand out from under Sherlock, the other still gripping the back of the man’s shoulder, and thrust it between their bodies to take hold of Sherlock’s cock firmly by the base. Sherlock cried out and arched his back when John began stroking him in time with his thrusts, keeping his touch light and quick, just how Sherlock had directed him earlier. The sounds of their breathing was thunderous - almost louder than the occasional squeaking of the worn-down bed - in John’s ears, the frantic beating of his heart supplying the tempo for which he timed the steady, but urgent undulations of his hips. 

What started as a tight coil in his gut and a subtle tingle at the base of his spine suddenly turned into an ebbing flow of sensation that swept through him, gradually strengthening in intensity, and his thrusts began to grow the slightest bit erratic as he plunged into Sherlock as deep as he could possibly go, and for a moment he worried, as he worked Sherlock urgently with his hand, that he would reach his climax prematurely and ruin the entire thing--

But then Sherlock’s cries suddenly ended in a sharp gasp, his muscles tightening around John almost painfully, and after a couple moments where the brunette was eerily, almost disturbingly silent, it happened. His cock twitched in John’s loose fist and his insides contracted violently around John’s length and a desperate sob tore its way from Sherlock’s throat as he reached the zenith, and John just barely had time to register that Sherlock was  _ crying _ when he felt the warmth of the man’s release paint his stomach and chest and all of a sudden, he was coming too.

He shouted as his hips slammed unwittingly forward, burying himself as deep as humanly possible inside the other man as he came, Sherlock's name on his lips, overwrought with sensations and feelings - and not just physical ones. In a confusing and impossible dichotomy, it felt like his heart had simultaneously been shattered and soothed with lovely, soft utterances of affection. Sherlock’s muscles continued to spasm around him, and John gave a breathy groan as his own hips twitched in an attempt to prolong his orgasm for as long as possible. And he would have stayed there, except that his body was shaking, his one arm trembling from the strain of holding himself up.

His other hand ceased its gentle stroking of Sherlock’s rapidly softening length before the man could keen from sensitivity, but it did little to assist him in staying upright because a moment later, his arms gave out, and he all but collapsed above Sherlock, their torsos pressing stickily together while John’s face pressed to the man’s neck as he attempted valiantly to catch his breath. He could feel Sherlock’s heart pounding in the heaving chest beneath him.

A minute passed before John felt a pair of hands slowly rest on his back; one settling at the base of his neck, the other wrapping part-way around his waist in a weak embrace. John hummed, exhausted, and pressed his nose to Sherlock’s neck.

“Y’okay?” he mumbled, voice a bit hoarse due to the dryness in his throat.

“Mmh,” the man below him hummed with a long, pleased sigh. “Never better.”

John pressed his smile to the man’s skin and very slowly began to push himself up - but the hands at his back and the legs still wrapped around his waist tightened to keep him where he was.

“Mmph- aren’t I crushing you?” the doctor asked, a light chuckle in his words.

“I’ll live,” Sherlock murmured above him, and John felt a nose nuzzling the top of his head fondly. “Stay.”

“I’m going to get a cramp,” John complined mildly, but didn’t fight. Instead, he sighed and relaxed further into the embrace… But a minute later, the heat that produced the sweat on his body was gone, and his sweat-damp skin was quickly becoming chilled. “Mm, Sherlock,” he slurred, “while I do like this, I’m getting a bit cold. And we need to clean ourselves up before this becomes unpleasant,” he reasoned, and Sherlock gave a sleepy, disgruntled groan before finally relinquishing his grip, his hands moving to flop lazily against the mattress at his sides while his legs slowly untangled themselves from around John’s waist.

“Thank you,” John said, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of the man's jaw, and pushed himself up now that he’d gotten his strength back. He pulled his hips back as carefully as he could, both of them hissing as his softened length slipped out of Sherlock. The doctor then kneeled between Sherlock’s legs and brought a hand to gently spread the man’s cheeks-

_ “What _ are you doing?” Sherlock snapped with as much conviction as he was able in his boneless state, his body lightly jolting and a hand raising to swat at John, who frowned.

“I’m just checking to make sure you aren’t bleeding,” he assured, and was met with a derisive sound. He smiled. “And you’re not,” he assessed, before sitting back on his haunches again.

“Good,” Sherlock’s gravelly voice sounded, as one hand reached lazily for him. “Now come back.”

John rolled his eyes fondly. “Just a minute,” he said, “let me get a rag to clean the both of us up with. You’ll thank me later.” His grin broadened as he was met with a displeased whine in response to his departure, but he rolled off the bed anyway and padded to the bathroom, carefully removing and tying off his full condom along the way.

The condom he disposed of promptly in the bin by the toilet, before he grabbed a clean flannel from by the sink and dampened it with warm water. He wiped the pearlescent fluid of Sherlock’s release from his abdomen and quickly cleaned his groin before rinsing the cloth, and before he left the room, he took a moment to look at himself in the mirror.

He’d always thought that the notion of someone ‘glowing’ after sex was a ridiculous one, but as he took in his own visage, looking vibrant and youthful and  _ happy _ in a way he hadn’t been since… well, since he could remember… he didn’t have a better word for it. He inspected his body; a mark near his right clavicle was swiftly growing purple, and as an afterthought he turned to look over his shoulder and found several long lines of angry red marring his back. A smug grin spread across his lips and he gave himself an indulgent and self-satisfied wink in the mirror before, damp cloth in hand, he left the room.

The sight of Sherlock lying still boneless on his bed made his grin broaden, and the man didn’t move except for a slight shiver when John swiped the warm cloth gently over his torso to clean away the evidence of their union. He tossed the cloth aside to land with a wet  _ ‘plop’ _ on the wood floor, vowing to clean it up later, before he nudged at Sherlock’s side.

“Budge over.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock didn’t move.

John rolled his eyes. “C’mon. I’ve just ravished you, and you repay me by taking up my entire bed?”

That earned a smug smirk from the younger man, and Sherlock made a half-hearted attempt to scoot a couple inches to the side, and John didn’t hesitate in taking up the newly-available space on the bed. He sighed as he settled on his back, and laughed when Sherlock promptly turned on his side and flopped an ungraceful arm over his stomach. John fell silent and closed his eyes with a soft sigh, the men basking together in the afterglow.

“You did.”

John’s eyes opened and his head turned to peer at the lax face of the man whose head rested beside him on the pillow. “Hm?”

“You ravished me,” the younger man said, voice irresistibly gravelly. “Thoroughly.” John chuckled and turned on his side to swiftly kiss the smirk adorning those gorgeous lips.

“I take it you enjoyed it, then?” 

“Immensely.”

The room fell silent save for the quiet sounds of their lazy, open-mouthed snogging, before a soft  _ ‘buzz’ _ sounded from behind John. He separated their mouths. “Someone’s trying to reach you,” he mumbled, opening his eyes. Sherlock hummed.

“Lestrade,” he offered.

John blinked as he remembered. “Oh, yeah. We’re supposed to give our statements today.” He heaved a sigh and settled back into the mattress, stifling a yawn. “He’ll just have to wait, won’t he?” Speaking for himself, John was content to lie in the bed with Sherlock curled up to him all day-

“Not too long,” Sherlock countered, “I texted him whilst you were in the shower. Given the travel time between NSY and here, I’d reckon he’s been loitering outside for the past five minutes.”

John’s eyes shot open.  _ “What?!” _ He sat up promptly and reached for Sherlock’s phone on the nightstand, his gut sinking and cheeks burning as he read through the messages that appeared on the home screen:

_ Coming into the building. Are you two decent? -GL _

_ Please tell me I’m not hearing what I think I’m hearing. -GL _

_ That good, huh? -GL _

_ Good Lord. You’re both lucky I’m not recording this. -GL _

_ Alright, I’m just going to go and sit on the stairs. Come and fetch me when you’re done and decent, if you could. -GL _

God groaned, his face hot. “He’s outside,” he said, and kicked his feet off the bed to go retrieve his wadded up pants and jeans from the floor near the bed and hastily shook them out before putting them on. “Get  _ dressed _ , Sherlock," he said in the direction of the bed, and the detective groaned.

“He said he didn’t record it,” the man said, and John looked to find him holding his mobile above his face, having picked it up from where John had left it on the bed. “I don’t know why you’re so concerned.”

John just rolled his eyes. “You’re a git, you know that?” he said, unable to quell the sudden fit of giggles that rose out of him as he picked up Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms from where they were bunched up on the floor and threw them at the man’s face, laughing harder at the indignant squawk that the action earned. He went to the kitchen where their respective shirts were discarded on the floor, tossed the white shirt in Sherlock’s direction and pulled on his own jumper before taking hurried strides towards the door. “You’d better be decent when I get back,” he called over his shoulder, and, bemused smile still plastered on his face, opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew.
> 
> I think it's worth noting that this is my very first attempt at writing ACTUAL smut, so I hope to God it was worth the wait. If you have any thoughts, feel free to let me know in the comments below; I live for your feedback, and every word I read is so immensely appreciated.
> 
> As always, thank you so so so very much for reading. I'll let you all know now that we're nearing the end of this story. By the next update I'll know how many more chapters exactly there will be. Until then, I wish you all a fantastic weekend and a great week ahead. Endless thanks once again to each and every one of you reading this. See you back soon. <3


	19. (Note from the Author)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just an update

Hi everyone,

I hope this update finds you all well. I'd like to begin by thanking you endlessly for your patience; I imagine many of you have moved on to other stories by now, which I encourage - support other artists on this site! For those of you who have been anxiously awaiting an update for the past several months, I am terribly sorry to have been delaying the ending of this story for so long. I know it is no excuse, but I have been dealing with many personal (medical) things that have demanded my undivided attention and much of my time. That, on top of school, work, and family, have taken me away from this story. Add to that a serious case of writer's block, and you get several months devoid of updates. For that, I am truly apologetic. But from this I have learned that, in the future, I will write up most of a story, if not the whole thing, before posting, so I am not hindered by what life throws at me, and you all aren't punished by my own shortcomings.

All that being said, I'd like to thank those of you who reached out, as well as thank everyone who has clicked their way to this (not-so-little) drabble of mine that started as a whim and turned into something I've loved producing every step of the way. Every kudos, every comment, every visitor to this work, has made everything more worthwhile than I could imagine. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 

I'll reassure you all that I am finally getting back to regularly working on the final few chapters of this work. If you would like to receive more regular updates, I am active on Twitter (@bi_an83), and Tumblr (minding-my-own-bismuth), and I follow back, if that is a selling point for anyone. Rest assured that an update WILL be coming in the very near future, and I will be going through previous chapters to rectify some continuity and grammar issues that I have come across.

To wrap up, I'd just like to say thank you again for all of your support. You all mean the world and more. Sorry again for the hiatus; shit just happens, I guess. Hope to see you all back here soon.

Best,  
M


	20. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited chapter is here! This isn't the finale; there will be at least one if not two chapters after this. I'll release that information on Twitter (@bi_an83) and Tumblr (minding-my-own-bismuth) in the coming days. I anticipate an update next week, probably mid-week, but I won't make any promises, since last time I thought I was going to update soon I ended up being out of commission for like six months.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter; it's very plot-driven, and I tried to gloss over most of the tedious details to keep it from being monotonous. But I did drop a generous amount of fluff and a wee bit of smut in there to whet your appetites. Hope it satisfies.
> 
> With that, please read, be merry, and do not hesitate to leave your thoughts in the comments. You know; stroke my ego and all that rubbish. See you on the flip side!

Following the gentle  _ ‘click’ _ of the door, the small flat fell silent save for the quiet rustling of threadbare sheets paired with the protesting groan of old mattress springs as Sherlock pushed himself up into a proper sitting position with a huff of feigned derision. The young man ignored the shirt that had been thrown at him, leaving it where it lay in an inside-out wad of fabric in his lap in favour of stretching his thin arms leisurely over his head with a groan at the stiffness in his muscles. His elbows bent and his hands fell to his head, where his long fingers pushed through his riotous, raven curls to muss them impossibly further. It occurred to him to merely stay on the bed, sprawled supine over the low thread-count duvet just to rattle Lestrade further, despite John’s wishes. But Sherlock had seen the victims of John’s wrath the night previous, and while he’d love to see the man blush, he didn’t fancy being the cause of the ensuing fury.

Two sets of footsteps, both of their gaits familiar to Sherlock’s perceptive ears, could be heard outside the door, combined with John’s sweet tenor offering what Sherlock could only guess were hasty, horrified apologies. Greg’s voice wafted through the closed door, and Sherlock, if only to save John from further embarrassment, pushed himself up to standing - but not before savouring the dull, throbbing ache in his backside that he knew he was going to feel for at least a day or two.

He left the shirt and trousers on the bed where they’d fallen, but stripped the thinnest sheet from the bed to wrap hastily around himself as the door of the flat cracked open.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice rang out, “are you decent?”

“Decent enough,” Sherlock replied, at the last moment sticking his foot out to kick the damp, soiled cloth that had been discarded on the floor under the bed, knowing it would be appreciated by the doctor; though he failed to see what good would come of hiding that particular piece of evidence. He meandered partway across the room as the door opened fully and John, cheeks still a fetching shade of scarlet, cautiously entered. At the sight of Sherlock draped in a sheer sheet, his shoulders slumped and his eyes rolled. 

“That is  _ not _ what I meant,” he chastised, though the admonishment lacked any real heat.

A small frown turned the corners of Sherlock’s lips downwards. “The important bits are covered,” he insisted, doing a brief spin to show that he was indeed modest, with the plain white sheet wrapped haphazardly around him, covering him from his shoulders to his feet.

“Not leaving much to the imagination, though,” John murmured, his eyes roving over the brunette where the thin sheet clung to his trim middle and hugged the delicate swell of his backside. Sherlock smirked when he noticed, and cast the other man a wink over his shoulder.

“I’ve seen him in less,” Greg interrupted from behind John, making the blond jump slightly, flush springing anew in his cheeks as if he’d been caught ogling. “Not while sober, though. So this is a welcome change,” the DI said with what Sherlock considered to be far too much cheer for this hour of the morning. Greg smiled tightly and clapped John on the back of one shoulder, only prolonging the doctor’s blushing. “Let’s get these statements done and signed, yeah?”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and made his way to the kitchen. “Fine,” he grumbled, and sat down with a flop into a chair - and regretted it immediately, his spine straightening as he barely held back a wince. His eyes widened and he gasped softly through his nose, and John noticed, if the man’s low chuckle as he walked past Sherlock’s seat was anything to go by.

John pointedly ignored Sherlock’s responding glare as he took the seat closest to the brunette, and motioned for Greg to take the remaining chair. The DI sat with a sigh and set the briefcase he’d been carrying on his lap to open it and produce several sheets of paper.

“I’ve got these typed up,” he said, sliding the papers across the table; half of which were set in front of Sherlock, the other half given to John. A pen was set between them, and Sherlock merely gazed boredly at the small font that covered the documents before him while John picked the first of his papers up, brow furrowed with confusion.

“John Watson, 43C Harrington, Occupational Therapist,” John read, eyes skimming the words on the page. “At 19:30 on Wednesday evening, a friend and I were walking through Battersea park… heard a strange sound and left the path… were held hostage by five men with guns?” He looked up, bewildered, but before Greg could get a word in edgewise, John went back to the paper to read with fervour. “One of them fired and shot one of his allies instead of me. Chaos ensued, leaving one man dead and two more wounded. I then fought one of the men while the others fled, and my friend managed to grab a nearby, unloaded gun and hit him over the head… Only about a fourth of this is correct,” the doctor protested, flipping to the next page and skimming over its contents with a heavy frown.

“That’ll be my brother’s doing,” Sherlock mumbled with an eye-roll, wriggling one arm out of his bundle of sheets to grab the pen Greg had provided. “Just sign it. It’s easier for everyone if you don’t ask questions.” He clicked the end of the pen and scrawled his initials and signature on the provided lines without even reading his pre-written statement which he knew corroborated with John's. “We’ll avoid court cases this way,” he said as he passed the pen over to John.

The blond let out a long-suffering sigh as he accepted the pen, holding it aloft as his blue eyes continued to skim over the finer points of his forged statement. “I’m not sure whether I’m grateful for Mycroft’s meddling, or whether I’m impossibly annoyed,” he murmured, frowning tightly as he put the all-point tip of the pen to a blank spot on one of the papers, jotting down his initials in black ink and following it with a practised signature.

“My annoyance turned to gratitude years ago,” Greg chimed in from his spot, elbows coming to rest on the surface of the table while his tanned fingers folded together in front of him. “You get used to it.”

“Still waiting for the gratitude,” Sherlock grumbled, slouching a bit in his seat; though he couldn’t deny that, at times, his brother’s affiliations with the upper ranks of political society did prove to be… convenient. The thought only made him sulk further.

Another sigh from John was followed by the tap of the metallic pen’s casing against the table as he let it tumble from his fingers. “Is that it, then?” he asked, voice laced with fatigue despite the hour as he sat back in his chair.

Greg reached across the table to collect Sherlock’s and John’s statements in turn, checking to be sure everything was in order, before depositing them neatly in his briefcase. “That should be it,” he confirmed, snapping his briefcase shut and casting them both a far-too-cheery smile. “Quick and painless.”

Sherlock gave a dramatic roll of his eyes.

“So,” the DI continued conversationally, “do you boys have any other plans for the day? Don’t get too graphic,” he jested, and Sherlock groaned.

“We’ve got some things to take care of, actually,” John supplied easily, ignoring the teasing altogether. “Once  _ this one _ gets dressed-” his eyes narrowed in Sherlock’s direction “-I think we’ll probably be off.”

Greg pursed his lips and nodded once, firmly. “Good. Well, if you need me, you know where to find me. And Sherlock, if I need you, I’ll-”

“-Actually,” John interrupted, “I think… he’s going to be out of commission for a little while.”

Sherlock shot a death glare at the doctor, as if silently daring the man to pull him away from his work. The steadily-growing pain behind his eyes and in his joints were steadfastly ignored for the purposes of proving John absolutely  _ wrong. _

“Why?” Greg asked. “Did you get hurt last night?” His brow was furrowed with concern.

John’s small smile made Sherlock want to simultaneously bask in the sweetness of it, and vomit. Though the urge to vomit was likely due to-

“Withdrawal,” John supplied, and Greg’s eyebrows rose. “He’ll be going through a supervised detox for the foreseeable future.”

_ “Really?” _ Greg asked, looking genuinely pleased. “That’s… wow. That’s fantastic. Good. I’m- I’m glad.” His voice broke on a happy little chuckle. “Good for you,” he directed at Sherlock, receiving a disinterested hum in response, before he turned his attention solely on John. “Thank you. Really; it’s relieving to finally have someone around who can get through to him.”

“Doing what I can,” John said mildly, before casting another smile Sherlock’s way that had the detective’s blood heating his cheeks once more.

Greg gave a sigh and pushed his chair away from the table. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” he said as he stood, and Sherlock watched as John politely rose to walk the DI to the front door. "Take good care of him. And take care of yourself," he said, motioning to John's nose. "How is it? And the concussion?"

"All of it hurts," John replied with a miserable chuckle as the pair exited the kitchen, the rest of their conversation muffled by the walls that were put between them and the detective who sat sulking in the kitchen.

Sherlock listened absently to the indistinct chatter exchanged their farewells, eyes tracing over the rings and lines of the wooden kitchen table.

“Bye, Sherlock!” Greg’s voice rang through the small flat.

“Leave!” Sherlock replied, and the corner of his lips lifted in a smirk as he heard John’s soft chuckle followed by the closing of the door.

John’s footfalls were slow, rhythmic, muffled by his lack of shoes as the man returned to lean against the bench near the sink. Sherlock looked in his direction. “I suppose I’m to get dressed now,” he mumbled, and John smirked.

“I won’t complain if you don’t,” he said with a cheeky grin, “but keep in mind that the longer you distract me, the longer it will take to get our test results.”

Sherlock hummed. “I fail to see the downside.”

“Course you do.” John’s smirk grew into a grin as he pushed away from the bench and moved to hover next to where Sherlock sat, and the brunette followed his eyes, having to tip his head back in order to see John’s face properly with the resulting proximity. No warning was given (aside from one calloused hand moving to cup Sherlock’s jaw) before the man bent at the waist to place a sweet, delicate kiss against Sherlock’s lips. The younger man’s prickly demeanour was obliterated by a clever swipe of John’s tongue over his bottom lip, and by the time the doctor pulled back, Sherlock was left with moistened lips slightly parted, a precious blush having bloomed high on his cheeks.

“Unfair,” Sherlock whined, but his words were little more than a sigh.

John just smirked. “Get dressed.” Sherlock gave a huff of protest as he watched the blond walk away, before rolling his eyes and standing, his improvised bed-sheet robe slipping down on one side to reveal one bony shoulder.

“Fine,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m only complying because I’m expecting another thorough ravishing later.” John laughed in response from where he’d stepped into the washroom, and the corner of Sherlock’s lips lifted in an amused grin as he made his way to his duffel near the bed.

\---

After an hour spent wrestling Sherlock into his clothes (literally), the pair exited John’s humble flat and made their way to the hospital.

Following vocalising her concern over the state of John's bruised and slightly-swollen nose, Molly had snickered at the sight of Sherlock in a pair of borrowed sweatpants, earning a glare from the detective and a an affectionate eye-roll from John as the doctor gave Sherlock a placating pat on his lower back.

Then it was John’s turn to be placated when he evidently noticed the way Molly looked at Sherlock as the brunette asked the girl to secure them a private lab room for testing. John felt significantly better (if a bit awkward) after Sherlock made sure that Molly caught them mid-kiss when she returned to them with the lab room keys.

The privacy was appreciated by both parties when Sherlock sat on the workbench in the lab, lights dimmed, John standing between his knees, and a needle was inserted effortlessly into a vein in Sherlock’s right arm. The brunette’s jaw clenched as he watched several phials fill with deep crimson, feeling like a tap, with John collecting sap. It was over soon enough and John wrapped Sherlock’s elbow in cotton and gauze before turning a fresh needle on himself. He worked silently, and Sherlock watched, equally soundless.

Five hours later, Molly returned to the small office they’d relocated to, and handed over their paperwork with a small smile. “All clean,” she pronounced, and John’s sigh of relief was mirrored by Sherlock. The pair exchanged smiles and relieved kisses (after Molly had left, of course), before taking their leave.

Chinese was picked up on the way back to John’s flat, but it would go uneaten.

And, as it turned out, in addition to no dinner, there would be no ‘thorough ravishings,’ as Sherlock grew violently ill sometime between receiving their test results and arriving back at John’s flat, and was rendered boneless and sweat-drenched by the toilet in a matter of minutes after arriving.

“Leave me alone,” Sherlock moaned from his place hunched against the beadboard lining the lower half of the washroom wall, and John complied-- after retrieving a bottle of water, some plain digestives, and a damp cloth to leave by Sherlock’s side.

A few hours later found a disgruntled, disheveled, and thoroughly exhausted detective stumbling through the door of the bathroom and over to where John sat at his desk chair. The blond pushed a few inches away from his desk at the sound of Sherlock’s footfalls and turned his chair around to smile softly, his brow creased with a strange mix of concern and adoration; Sherlock found the same emotions mixing in the deep blue pools of the man’s irises.

John made a motion to stand, but Sherlock cut him off by advancing further, savouring the look of pleasant surprise that dawned on John’s face as he smoothly straddled John’s legs to sit on his lap, and he immediately slumped forward, his chest pressing against John’s as his chin landed on the man’s shoulder. Sherlock felt rather than heard the low chuckle that rumbled in John’s chest, and he sighed softly at the strong arms that wrapped around his middle.

“Feeling any better?” John asked quietly, his deft fingers beginning to rub small circles into the muscles running along either side of Sherlock's spine, which had grown tense with his hunching over the toilet bowl.

“Mmnph,” Sherlock groaned, his arms lifting to drape limply over the doctor’s shoulders. In re-adjusting, he let his chin rest atop his own bicep, and tilted his head to rest it against the side of John’s. His eyes closed and he let out an indulgent, noisy sigh as he relished the feeling of being looked after and cared for in this time of vulnerability.

He could tell John was smiling when the man turned his head to press that sweet smile against Sherlock’s temple in a fond kiss that had Sherlock’s lips twitching into a weak smile of their own as he hummed appreciatively. “Better now,” he murmured, voice hoarse, throat raw from the bile he’d spent the better part of the evening retching into the toilet. The mere thought of his suffering made his stomach churn unpleasantly again, and his brow creased with misery as he let out a pitiful whimper, not unlike a child, wrapped in John’s arms seeking comfort. “I’ve had quite enough of this,” he weakly griped.

“I’m sorry, love,” John said softly, something about the endearment sounding in that sweet tenor miraculously curing some of Sherlock’s malady. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Bless this man, Sherlock thought as he smiled fondly. “Just this,” he responded. “Your hands. And your voice.” If he’d been in his right mind, he would have resented the sentimentality oozing from his words. At the moment, though, he really couldn’t be bothered.

“I’m happy to oblige, then.” John’s smile was audible, and it eased Sherlock’s very soul. The brunette closed his eyes and concentrated on John’s hands as they worked downwards, fingers creeping beneath the hem of the soft, borrowed tee-shirt he wore. When those calloused fingertips dug gently into the muscles of his lower back near his hips, Sherlock let out an appreciative groan. “Internal obliques,” John murmured, before moving his hands mere centimetres outwards to Sherlock’s waist. “External obliques…”

“Mmnh?” Sherlock hummed inquisitively, eyes remaining closed even as his eyebrows pinched together.

John didn’t reply, his hands shifting inwards and upwards to rub at the tense muscles lining Sherlock’s spine. “Erector spinae,” he continued, voice barely more than a whisper.

“ _ Mmnnn. _ ” This time, Sherlock’s hum was one of understanding, as he recognised what John was doing.

“Latissimus dorsi,” John continued, palms caressing the sore muscles behind Sherlock’s ribs, working at the younger man’s flesh until the stiffness in his muscles yielded. Once satisfied, he moved onward.

The doctor continued his ministrations, focusing his attention on each strained muscle group with an unmatched reverence, effectively reducing Sherlock to jelly as his hands ( _ warm, rough, gentle, practised _ ) skimmed over the detective’s skin under his shirt. His words were as gentle as his touch; clinical, yet somehow incomprehensibly intimate. “Teres major… Teres minor… Serratus posterior… Rhomboid minor…” The doctor’s voice put Sherlock into a trace as his hands expertly drew the tension out of his body, inch by inch. Sherlock shifted his arms when John got past the supraspinatus muscle and began working on the upper part of his trapezius, sighing in relief and letting his head loll to the side as the muscles supporting it were, seemingly, reduced to mush. 

“Semispinalis capitis,” John whispered as his fingers pushed into the soft hair at the back of Sherlock’s head, massaging gently and wringing a rather pathetic-sounding whine from Sherlock’s throat in the process.

“If I hadn’t just gotten through with hurling the dregs of my essence into your toilet, I’d offer to suck you off,” Sherlock mumbled weakly, to which John chuckled in response, the feeling of his chest rumbling against Sherlock’s being one of pure euphoria.

“While I appreciate the gesture,” John rejoined as his fingers pushed up further to massage Sherlock’s scalp, “the last thing we need right now is you gagging.” He turned his head to press a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s as the younger man let out an amused snort.

Sherlock gave a low hum of agreement, and when John’s hands smoothed back down to his shoulders, he opened his eyes; only to squint at the light coming from John’s laptop, which sat opened on the desk. Upon the screen was what Sherlock recognised to be a blog entry, the cursor bar blinking at the end of a sentence, but the title at the top of the page in large, bold print drew his attention. He smiled. “The Burgling Russian Brothers?”

John’s hands froze on Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock could swear he felt John’s body temperature rise in embarrassment. “I couldn’t think of a better title that included alliteration,” the man murmured, his tone defensive. Sherlock chuckled lowly.

“You should add ‘Blessington’ in, then,” he suggested. “Blessington and the Burgling Brothers.”

“Blessington wasn’t his real name, though,” John contested, swivelling his chair a fraction and twisting his head round and back awkwardly to try and catch a glimpse at the screen.

“I can already see that you used his alias in the actual case write-up,” Sherlock murmured as his eyes skimmed a portion of what John had already written in the drafted post below the title. “Oh, John-  _ ‘... so furtive, he reminded me of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent.’ _ Really?” His tone was teasing, adoring; he was absolutely smitten.

“Hey!” John protested, though his defensiveness was feigned. “Shut up. Your ego doesn’t need stroking. No one’s going to read it, anyway,” he said, obviously resigned.

Sherlock took the opportunity to sit up straight, perched upon John’s lap, his own knees framing John’s hips as well as the back of the chair, his arms still loosely looping around the blond’s neck. “Of course people will read it,” he assured. “And in any case, it would be worthwhile to have a written archive of case files at the ready. So long as you keep from over-romantacising everything.”

“Mmm. No promises,” John teased, a mirthful twinkle in his eyes as he leaned forward for a kiss-- but he was stopped by Sherlock’s hand against his lips, and when he opened his eyes, he was met with a sour expression on the detective’s face.

“Haven’t brushed my teeth,” the brunette explained. “Would likely be unpleasant.”

John just shrugged and gave a small smile against Sherlock’s fingertips. One hand left Sherlock’s back to pull the younger man’s hand away from his lips to hold in his own, and instead of kissing Sherlock’s mouth, he pressed his lips tenderly to Sherlock’s knuckles. “Fine then,” he said quietly, looking up to meet Sherlock’s eyes between gentle pecks, “this will have to do.”

“More than sufficient,” Sherlock breathed after a long moment, cheeks turning rosy as a result of the reverence with which John attentively  _ praised _ the contours of his slender fingers and pale hand with his mouth. Sherlock was growing lightheaded, and at this point he wasn’t sure whether John’s ministrations or the withdrawal was to blame. “I’m… feeling fatigued,” he said awkwardly, not wanting John to stop, but also not wanting to faint in the older man’s lap.

John hummed and pressed one last kiss to Sherlock’s palm before lowering their hands. “To bed, then,” he instructed with a smile, and patted Sherlock’s backside playfully to urge the other to stand. Which Sherlock did; though he kept ahold of John’s hand and pulled the man up with him before leading the way to the bed along the far wall, the sheets neatly made -- John must have done that whilst Sherlock was commandeering the bathroom. 

The detective pulled back the duvet and immediately crawled beneath, not bothering to take off his shirt or sweatpants, anticipating nighttime shivers; and so John followed suit, remaining in his own boxers and tee-shirt as he climbed delicately over Sherlock to settle on the other side of him, between Sherlock and the wall. Sherlock was thankful, as this gave him precedence when it came to needing the bathroom, or the lined bin that sat on the floor beside the bed. He imagined it would likely come in handy.

His attention was taken away from thoughts of being sick by John’s arm sliding over his waist from behind, and Sherlock sighed contentedly as the arm drew their bodies together, his back pressing to John’s front. The warmth radiating from John’s body was grounding, comforting, almost healing. Mending the aches inside him, melting them away. Featherlike kisses were pressed delicately to his nape had Sherlock’s eyelids fluttering closed as he focused on the sensation. A smile rose, unbidden but not unwelcome, to his lips.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and he would have thought John hadn’t heard it save for the soft hum that buzzed against his neck in response. His secret smile widened at the simplicity of it all; in those two words, he meant more than just  _ ‘thank you for the cuddle,’ ‘thank you for the massage’, _ \- he was thanking John for  _ everything _ , in the only way he knew how; which was a gross understatement. But John understood. He could  _ feel _ that John understood; every light brush of John’s lips against his neck, every soft breath of warm air breaking against his nape and travelling over his shoulders to caress his skin like cigarette smoke, every quiet hum that was felt rather than heard; they were all  _ thank yous _ and  _ you’re welcomes _ being silently uttered in tandem.

He decided then that John was living poetry. It was probably the withdrawal ( _ definitely the withdrawal _ ) that had him likening John’s lips to feather quills and his own body to parchment, silent stanzas written and rewritten along the scroll of his shoulders, neck, and spine. And he drifted to sleep to the silent lullaby of kisses, and vague thoughts of iambic pentameter.

 

\---

 

The next several days went by in a blur.

That is to say, they didn’t go by  _ quickly _ , rather than they went by in a blurred mosaic of shoddy sleep schedules, sex (though only twice), hours spent in the bathroom, many emptied vomit bins and many more packages of bland, flavourless biscuits washed down with water and plain, watered-down, black tea.

Sherlock’s fever broke on the fourth day. For that, John was immensely grateful, though not as grateful as Sherlock, who was finally able to get a solid nine hours of interrupted sleep immediately after. 

The tremours gradually ceased, the stomach pains lulled shortly after, and joint aches were suspended by nightly massages administered by John over a period of almost two weeks. 

By the end of the second week, Sherlock was able to stomach chicken soup, which set John at ease greatly. A couple days later, he felt comfortable going back to work his regular hours (thanks to Mycroft, who had indeed secured his position while silencing any and all protests and concerns from coworkers); though he kept his phone on and on-hand it case Sherlock needed something (and it turned out that Sherlock apparently needed to text John once every ten minutes to report that his bored status was showing no signs of changing). More than once, John came home to Sherlock, wrapped in the duvet, sitting at John’s desk chair on his computer, either on his blog or in his emails (John didn’t bother asking how Sherlock got his passwords) snooping and otherwise being a nuisance, which, while it was annoying, also meant that he was getting better.

Gradually, healthy pink undertones returned to replace the pallid hue Sherlock’s skin had taken on, and John noticed one night as he was kissing down a panting Sherlock’s bare chest, that the man was putting on just a little bit of weight.

“You’re filling out again,” he observed as he kissed down Sherlock’s belly, tongue caressing the curl of the man’s navel. The action earned an almost-squeak from where Sherlock’s head rested at the top of the bed.

“Shut up and s- _ uuh, oh- _ ” Sherlock’s words were cut short and John was gifted with the sight of the brilliant brunette’s mouth forming a deliciously amazed  _ O _ as he looked down to were John’s lips were wrapped around the head of his cock. If John could smile, he would have. Instead, he maintained eye contact with his partner as he lowered his head, tongue flattening against the ridged underside of Sherlock’s length as his cheeks hollowed with light suction. He learned over the course of their partnership that Sherlock preferred less suction, and a loose grip of his lips combined with more action from his tongue. And he put his knowledge to use, swallowing around the tip of Sherlock’s tumescence before pulling his mouth off fully, parting his lips to give Sherlock a show as he lewdly licked around the ruddy, swollen head. His hand moved from the rumpled duvet to wrap around Sherlock’s length, working in light but quick and rhythmic strokes until Sherlock vocalised a warning for his impending release, and John greedily, enthusiastically drank in the sounds that tore from Sherlock’s throat as well as the bitter, warm fluid that pulsed down his own.

Afterwords, as the men lay tangled together atop the wrinkled bed-sheets, John sighed happily as his head rested on Sherlock’s shoulder, his fingers tracing nebulous patterns into the swiftly-drying sweat on Sherlock’s pectorals, transfixed by the sight of the man’s chest rising and falling with each breath. He flattened his palm to feel his detective’s heart beating, and closed his eyes, imagining that his own was beating in chorus.

“I’ve been looking at a flat.”

The sudden words, uttered in a casual baritone, tore John from his trance. “What?”

“A flat,” Sherlock said, and John shifted, pushing himself up on one elbow to look at his lover’s face. 

“A flat.”

“That is what I said, John.”

John rolled his eyes and smirked. “Alright, prat. Elaborate.”

“It’s in central London,” Sherlock continued, before his face twisted slightly in confusion. “I mentioned it immediately after we busted the gang hideout near Battersea Park.”

A moment of silence was followed with a sound of realisation from John. That was right; they’d glossed over moving in together, something about John’s bed being too small for both of them to share indefinitely (which it absolutely was), and then Sherlock had mentioned a flat. Downtown. And the landlady liked him. They’d been meaning to look at it later that week, but in the whirlwind of the events that followed, John had completely forgotten.

“Didn’t you say she offered you a discounted price?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. A very steep discount, I might add.”

“Why?” John asked. “And how can she afford to do that?”

“I told you; she likes me. I met her in Florida last year for a case regarding her husband. He was charged with murder, embezzlement, drug cartel affiliations, etcetera. Sentenced to death by lethal injection.”

John’s eyes widened. “So… you stopped her husband being executed?”

“Oh, no.” Sherlock’s lips spread in a Cheshire grin. “I ensured it.”

After recovering from his shock, John burst into a fit of giggles. “Oh, God,” he sighed. “You are absolutely insane.” Sherlock’s low chuckles joined his own laughter.

“Problem?”

“Not in the slightest.” John’s laughter subsided and he lowered his head back to Sherlock’s shoulder, cuddling close and wrapping his arm around the man’s trim waist. “Doesn’t tell me how she can afford that discount.”

“John,” Sherlock deadpanned, “her husband was practically the figurehead of notorious drug cartels active in the better part of the United States,  _ and _ she won a hefty sum in a domestic violence lawsuit against him. Even given conversion rates, she could probably buy half of the properties in London.”

“Damn,” John murmured. “Well. Good thing we have it in with her, I guess.”

Sherlock hummed. “I’ll text her later and tell her we’ll be dropping by tomorrow after you’re finished at work.”

“Brilliant.” The word held with it the brightness of John’s smile, oozing elation at the prospect of moving in, officially, with Sherlock Holmes. A quaint little flat downtown with a madman for a boyfriend and a rich widow of a drug lord for a landlady. It wasn’t at all the future he’d envisioned for himself a few months ago. But, as he rested his head against Sherlock’s chest and listened to the sound of the man’s heart beating, steady and even and alive just beneath his skin, he knew that there was no place he would rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone for the lovely comments on the Note from the Author chapter I posted a couple days ago. In all honesty, this being my very first fic, I never anticipated the following I've somehow accrued. And such devoted followers; you've stuck with this story through thick and thin - the chapters I'm proud of, the ones I'm not-so-proud of, all my stumbles regarding continuity and delays in posting... I can't thank you all enough for just existing, let alone actually reading this and leaving kudos and commenting. You all are what keep me coming back to this work. And I will finish it; not just for myself, but for you guys, because you all deserve so much... this is the least I can do for you.
> 
> Thank you again, all of you, for everything. <3


	21. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I've learned over the course of writing this fic:  
> \- I prefer keeping chapters to a healthy 5,000 to 7,000 words.  
> Subsequently, I've learned that:  
> a) long texting scenes do not add up to lots of words, and  
> b) I can EASILY write 4,000+ words of overly-detailed, gratuitous sex.
> 
> I'm releasing this information because the final third of this chapter (maybe more) is just sex. I do so hope that no one objects...

“It’s great to have you back, Dr. Watson.” John looked up at the sound of Rachel’s voice, pausing on his way to his lunch break to offer her a kind smile. Some part of him missed their casual conversation in passing during his time away from the office. It was another perfectly normal aspect of his life that had been absent for a time, but that he welcomed back eagerly. After spending so much time around Sherlock,  _ normalcy _ didn’t seem so dull and monotonous anymore, but rather relieving.

“I’m glad to be back.” The words came easily, more honest than John had anticipated. “And it’s great to have  _ you _ back, as well,” he continued warmly, smile widening as he moved to lean on her desk. “How was Spain?”

The receptionist smiled beamingly, her recently-tanned skin making her bright blue eyes appear brighter than he remembered as she launched into an enthusiastic monologue, regaling John with tales of blissfully warm weather and scorching beaches and surf and sun and fresh kiwis and breathtaking monasteries and something about a second cousin. She’d been on holiday when John had returned back to working regular hours, and he’d been elated when she’d returned that morning; her fill-in had been a dour youth who had a habit for putting her feet on the desk, listening to too-loud indie music that John could hear despite her chunky headphones, and popping her bright pink bubblegum over and over and over and  _ over _ \- and did complaining about all of this make John feel decades older than he actually was? Absolutely.

He was glad to have Rachel back.

“-and I would  _ highly _ recommend going there if you’ve the time. You could take your boyfriend,” the receptionist chirped, swinging her feet merrily, seafoam-green-painted toenails peeking out from the tips of her sandals where they showed from under her desk.

John blinked in surprise. “My boyf--” he reeled for a moment, before he realised that, yes, he  _ did _ have a boyfriend, and it was  _ official _ , and he allowed himself to bask in the surrealness of it all before his focus returned to Rachel, head tilting inquisitively. “How did you know I have a boyfriend?” he asked, stunned, but riding the wave of satisfaction that came with openly being in a relationship. With another man, at that. Rachel’s knowing smile eradicated his fears of judgement; her warm eyes held nothing but approval, and even a touch of playful mischief.

“He came in a short while ago and asked when you’d be on lunch,” she supplied, continuing even as John’s eyes widened. “You were with a patient- he said he’d wait for you in the quad outside when you were ready.”

“Oh.” This wasn’t the first time Sherlock had visited him at work; and, he recalled, not the first time they’d had lunch together on his lunch break. But back then, Sherlock had been a client. Nothing more. This was new. And new was good, he thought to himself as his lips stretched slowly into a fond smile. “Well. Thanks for telling me. I’ll just… yeah.” His goofy smile remained on his face as he turned and headed for the door, but he was stopped by Rachel’s voice ringing out behind him.

“He’s cute.”

“Hm?”

Rachel smiled, perching her chin upon her hand. “He’s really cute. You two are cute together.”

“You… haven’t seen us together,” John said with a huff of awkward laughter.

“Oh, but I have,” she rejoined, that knowing smile returning. “I remember him. He’s not easy to forget. I’m sure you know that better than I do,” she said, and John’s cheeks went pink. “Dating your patients, Dr. Watson?” The tease in the words that left her glossed lips was present in her shimmering eyes.

“I-”

“It’s okay, John.” Rachel cut him off with a laugh. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” Before John could get a word in edgewise, she cast him a cheeky wink and shooed him along. “Now go to your boyfriend. Don’t waste your lunch away here.”

John exhaled a breath of relief he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. “Thank you,” he said with a genuine smile, before turning and taking his leave.

As expected, Sherlock was sitting primly on a wooden chair before a small table in the quad outside, practically black and white with his pale skin and his long black coat (they’d retrieved it, as well as some of his clothes, from his flat the week prior), sporting sinfully tight trousers and a crisp grey button-up. John smiled; his detective was an amalgamation of colourless chroma, his clean-cut figure a stark and striking contrast where it sat against the colourful shades of autumn that blossomed around him. The season brought with it the beautiful, bittersweet death of the flora on the campus grounds, the leaves of the trees turning from green to vibrant orange, red, yellow, before fading to brown and falling, dry and dead, to pepper the otherwise-perfectly-manicured lawns of the courtyard. What leaves remained on the trees acted as natural filters for the sun that shone weakly through the clouds, refining its harsh rays to cast golden and red-orange hues over the landscape, like coloured paper taped over stage lights. And then there was Sherlock, sitting like a gorgeous and completely indifferent harbinger of death, pale and gorgeous and colourless. Maybe that’s why he made John’s world so much more vibrant.

But no; he wasn’t completely colourless, John was reminded as he strode across the quad to where the other man sat. His cheeks were a healthy pink, the tip of his sharp nose having also turned the barest bit rosy from the exposure to the crisp autumn air, and the eyes that lifted to lock onto John’s were a nameless commixture of blues and greys and greens, like precious, blemishless fire opals that grew impossibly more vibrant when the smile that crossed Sherlock’s lips was reflected in them.

“John,” Sherlock greeted, and the warmth with which his name was spoken made John forget about the slight chill in the air that foretold of a harsh winter, forgot about Rachel with her talk of sunny Spain, forgot about all of the mesmerising colours that came with the change of season. Sherlock stood and John immediately wrapped the taller man in a loving embrace, smiling into the folds of his absurdly dramatic coat as his hands locked behind Sherlock’s back.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, not pulling away, but tipping his head up to smile brightly at his partner. Sherlock’s hands moved to lock behind John’s back as he smiled.

“Thought you might be hungry. And I wanted to see you. I’ve been suffering from cabin fever for nearly a month. Can you blame me for wanting to get out of the flat?” he asked, and John chuckled.

“No, I suppose I can’t.” The doctor pushed up on his toes to press a quick peck to Sherlock’s mouth before, reluctantly, he stepped away. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

Sherlock grinned and motioned to the table he’d been sitting at. “Already taken care of,” he announced proudly, and John’s eyes fell upon a plastic bag sitting upon the table. He’d missed it completely, so taken up he’d been, hopelessly enamoured as he mentally waxed poetic about his delightfully dazzling detective.

“Oh,” he said, pleasantly surprised. “Brilliant. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.” He stepped towards the table and grabbed the bag, peeking inside and raising his eyebrows. “Oh, lovely,” he sighed as the scents of warm curry and freshly-made spinach samosas wafted into his face. “I’m famished. Shall we dig in?”

They opted to dine outside despite the slight chill, choosing to savour one of the last days of decent weather. Sherlock didn’t protest; but that was probably because being outside gave him the opportunity to smoke.

“In my defense, I’ve made this pack last nearly a month.” The brunette attempted to maintain as much innocence as possible despite the subject matter, holding up the nearly-empty pack of cigarettes John had bought for him those weeks ago and rattling it noisily in the air to further his cause.

“That’s good,” John murmured, though he couldn’t hide his mild disapproval. “And it’s better than shooting up. But I would like for you to try and quit. We can get patches for you, if you think that would help.”

Sherlock gave a derisive hum as he popped the cigarette he’d drawn from the pack into his mouth.

John was silent for a few moments, just watching the detective flick his lighter, eyes lingering on the brief flicker of flame and the subsequent smouldering embers on the end of the fag, before he spoke again. “You know, I won’t kiss you as long as you taste like an ashtray.”

“Yes you will,” Sherlock mumbled, his lips curling into an impish grin as he blew a plume of smoke into the air, watching as it was swept away by the light breeze. John’s eyes narrowed, but he snuffed the argument bubbling up in his throat, dousing it with another spoonful of curry.

“I’m thinking of stopping by the Yard today,” Sherlock continued, flicking the ashes off the end of his cigarette. John watched the grey, featherlight flecks fall to the concrete below. “Now that I’m functioning again, might as well take on some casework.”

“Nothing too vigorous,” John warned, pointing his spoon threateningly at the man sitting across from him. “Try some cold case files. Or… you know. Petty thefts.” How romantic, he thought as he spooned more curry into his mouth; a nice meal shared outside on a nice day with a breathtaking man, discussing the level of severity of cases on which Sherlock was allowed to work. Their shoes brushed periodically under the table, just adding to the madness. He smiled into his bowl despite himself. Sherlock didn’t take notice, clearly preoccupied with picking apart his naan.

“If those are the doctor’s orders,” he sighed dramatically as he tossed a fleck of unleavened bread to the ground for a curious pigeon that had hopped in their direction. The bird’s colourful breast tremoured as it gave what sounded to John like an appreciative coo, before lowering its grey head to peck ungracefully at the gift of food.

“Mmhm,” the doctor hummed around a mouthful, only swallowing once he saw Sherlock move to throw another piece of his bread on the ground. “Are you going to eat any of that yourself? Or did you just buy food to feed me and the winged rats that plague London?” he jested, before a thought occurred to him. “How did you pay for this, anyway?”

Sherlock grinned as he tossed another piece of his naan to the pavement. “Might have nicked your card.”

John rolled his eyes and shook his head at the table with an adoring grin. Because his boyfriend stealing his card was adorable, apparently. Thank God he’d paid for his cab that morning with cash. When he looked up again, Sherlock made a point to stuff a generous piece of the bread into his mouth, chewing with gusto, giving John a look that said,  _ ‘happy?’ _ To which John replied with a smile and a singular nod.

The rest of their meal was spent laughing over the three pigeons that gradually joined the first, watching them scatter and scurry around as Sherlock tossed bits of bread for them to chase, while John coaxed Sherlock into eating some more naan, one of the spinach samosas, and about half of the second bowl of curry before finally relenting, satisfied that at least Sherlock’s stomach wasn’t completely empty. When they were finished, John collected their rubbish and placed it all neatly into the bag the food had come in, and stood, checking his watch. 

“I’ve got to get back.” Remorse just barely tinged his words. “Got an appointment in ten.”

Sherlock smiled softly and rose to standing, ambling around the table to wrap his arms loosely around John’s waist. “Go save some lives, Doctor,” he said fondly, the words making John feel like he was  _ glowing. _ The detective leaned forward to press a sweet kiss to John’s cheek before he stepped away, and the older man almost redacted his no-kissing-after-cigarettes rule; but he refrained. They had all the time in the world. Plus, he’d eaten curry. Wouldn’t make for a very good kiss.

“I’ll see you after work,” he said in lieu of a farewell, grabbing the bag of their trash off of the table as he took a couple steps backwards towards his clinic.

“At Baker Street,” Sherlock reminded, before giving a little wave. “See you then.”

“Bye,” John called out quietly as he watched Sherlock turn around, his long strides already taking him what seemed like miles away in a matter of moments. The doctor watched him go, sure he looked ridiculous standing there alone in the quad with a besotted smile on his face. His reverie was shattered by a voice sounding behind him.

“Dr. Watson?”

John turned, and smiled at the sight of a familiar face. “Laura!” he exclaimed, reaching forward to pat the smiling student’s shoulder. “Good to see you. You’re a little early,” he observed, checking his watch again to be sure he hadn’t stalled too long. Still five minutes.

“Early is on time, on time is late,” Laura joked with an awkward laugh. “Are you… on lunch?” she asked, eyeing the bag in his hand.

“Oh, just finished. Here, I’ll walk you in.”

He led the way, holding the door to his building open for his next patient, the bell above the office door jingling merrily when they reached it.

“Have a good lunch, John?” Rachel asked with a beaming smile, and John cast her a grin.

“Divine,” he cooed playfully, and she giggled to herself as she turned to her computer, presumably checking Laura in. “Um… as long as we’re both here, care to start a couple minutes early?” he asked Laura, who smiled and nodded. He led her into his office, binning the detirus of his and Sherlock’s lunch before he took a seat in his chair. Laura sat in the chair opposite his own, and he gave an easy smile as he readied himself to start their session.

“So. How’s your week been?”

 

\--

 

_ On my way. -JW _

Shooting off the text, John raised his head to glance through the back seat window, idly watching the sights of central London blur by. 221 Baker Street was what he’d told the cab driver; he couldn’t help but notice how the address seemed to roll effortlessly off of his tongue, fit perfectly in his mouth, as though it were meant to be.

A fanciful notion, granted, but as the cab pulled up alongside the kerb and he stepped out onto the pavement to face a tall building of white brick with a black door sporting gold-painted numbers, something inside him warmed at the thought that he was  _ home _ .

Another cab pulled up behind him as his own taxi slotted back into traffic, and out stepped Sherlock, smiling at John as he shut the back door.

“Good timing. Prime spot,” John observed with another glance at the building, and Sherlock nodded in agreement as he brushed past John to rap the brass door-knocker thrice in quick succession.

“Exactly,” he said as he stepped back, hands folding behind his back as he cast John a smile. “And the best part is, we’ll be able to afford it.”

John gave an acknowledging hum, eyes shifting to the door as he caught movement in the slim windows to the side of it. “Anything fun at the Yard?”

The question was met with a noisy sigh that John took to mean  _ no. _ “Just two mildly suspicious suicides,” the detective offered, rocking back on his heels. “No connection between the victims besides the method. Circumstantial.”

“Oh. Well-”

“-Sherlock!”

John’s vocalised thought was interrupted by an elderly woman opening and stepping through the doorway to the flat, arms opening wide in greeting, and, to his surprise, Sherlock smiled warmly and stepped forward willingly into the embrace, going so far as to wrap his arms fondly around the woman’s back to place his opened palms against the backs of her shoulders.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he greeted warmly, and John’s heart melted at the sight of the man, who was known for being so cold and clinical, being so tender and affectionate towards a woman he clearly cared very much about. “It’s good to see you.”

The pair separated, and the woman’s warm, hazel eyes turned to John. “And you must be Dr. Watson.”

“Please,” John said, charming smile in place as he reached out his right hand politely to shake, “call me John.”

“John, then,” Mrs. Hudson replied, reaching both of her hands out to clasp around John’s. They were warm, worn soft from use and age, her touch safe and welcoming. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” John’s words had Mrs. Hudson laughing softly.

“Such a gentleman,” she observed aloud, “and so handsome.” Her gaze returned to Sherlock. “I can see why you like him.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, voice just a touch louder than strictly necessary, though it did nothing to distract from his reddening cheeks. “I believe we’re here to see the flat?”

“Of course. Right this way, boys.” The woman turned and led the way into the foyer. John held the door open for Sherlock before following inside, letting the door close securely behind him, and he made his way up the stairs - seventeen of them, he counted, taking note of the particularly squeaky step that groaned under the weight of their footfalls thrice in succession as they each passed over it. At the top of the second landing was a door to their right that remained closed, and a door ahead of them which Mrs. Hudson opened. The silhouettes of both her and Sherlock blocked most of John’s view, and the light which poured through what he could only assume were large windows obscured the rest of his vision. But when he stepped over the threshold and his vision cleared, and he let his eyes sweep over the sitting room, taking in the organised chaos that had Sherlock written all over every inch of it, his mouth curled into a smile of unfettered serenity.

_ Home. Definitely, home. _

“What do you think, John?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice was soft, and John’s eyes flicked over to where she was standing by the door, hands clasped over her breast, a hopeful look in her eyes.

“Very nice,” John replied happily, looking around the room once more. “This could be very nice… indeed…” his words trailed off as his feet took him to stand before the fireplace, where he espied on the mantlepiece a vivarium containing a deceased bat pinned and labeled on the inside, as well as several other smaller, winged specimens. He let out a sigh as he turned around, hands coming to his hips as he looked around at the clutter that had accumulated on every surface. If he didn’t know better, he’d pin the mess on the former residents, skipping town and leaving all of their possessions behind for someone else to deal with. Unfortunately, he did know better. “I see you’ve taken the liberty of moving in already,” he deadpanned, leveling a look at Sherlock.

Completely unphased, the brunette gave a hum and flicked one hand vaguely at a stack of newspapers on one of the desks by the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Well, obviously I can tidy things up a bit,” he murmured.

“ _ You _ can tidy things up a bit?” John asked incredulously, though his lips quirked into a smirk. “You mean  _ I’ll _ be tidying things up a bit.”

“Formalities,” Sherlock said dismissively with a haughty sniff. John rolled his eyes fondly.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson chided. “The mess you’ve made.” She shook her head and sighed softly before turning her attention back to John, pointing a finger towards the doorway they’d come through where another set of stairs leading upwards could be seen. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms,” she said, a measured carefulness in her tone.

John offered her a bemused smile. “Only if we have a domestic, I suppose,” he mused, eyes roving over Sherlock, who’d meandered into the kitchen. 

“That’s what the sofa is for,” the detective offered distractedly as he fiddled with something on the kitchen table.

John merely gave a long-suffering roll of his eyes before offering Mrs. Hudson an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t you worry dear,” she fussed, coming over to place a hand lovingly on his shoulder, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones. I’m no stranger to domestics. Just as long as you boys keep your  _ bedroom activities _ relatively quiet, I think everything will be-”

“ _ Thank you, _ Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock swooped in from the kitchen just as John’s ears turned scarlet, and his large hands landed on her shoulders, beginning to steer her towards the door. “John and I will have a look around… perhaps you could fetch us some tea?”

Clearly not one to be fooled, Mrs. Hudson playfully swatted the young man away, though she continued on her way to the open flat door. “I’m your landlady, love. Not your housekeeper.”

“Biscuits, too, if you have any,” Sherlock called after her.

“Not your housekeeper!”

John chuckled as he listened to their landlady’s delicate footsteps receding as she made her way down the steps to her own flat, and only when she was out of earshot did he let out a long, noisy breath.

A long few moments passed in silence, with John just looking aimlessly around the space, eyes lingering on the eccentric decorations; a bison skull wearing a pair of vintage headphones adorning one wall, a human skull perched happily on the mantlepiece, another vivarium hanging on another wall filled with small insects. Sherlock broke the silence, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Do you like it?”

John turned to face him at the question, his smile reassuring. “It’s messy,” he said, taking a slow step towards his partner. “Chaotic.” Another step. “Eccentric.” Another. “Completely unlike anything I’m used to and anything I’ve ever seen before.” A final step brought him practically chest-to-chest with Sherlock, and he lifted his arms to loop around the taller man’s waist. “Reminds me of you.”

Sherlock’s brows lifted in anticipation, and John’s smile widened.

“I love it,” he affirmed quietly, and pushed up on his toes to kiss the happy smile that bloomed on Sherlock’s lips.

Both men closed their eyes, melting into the sweet kiss and into each other, Sherlock’s own arms lifting to drape over John’s shoulders; a motion that was now practised, and delightfully familiar to them both. John hummed softly, his parted lips buzzing against Sherlock’s, the flat falling silent save for the barely-perceptible sounds of their mingling breaths and slowly-tangling tongues.

So lost in their leisurely snog was John that the footsteps on the stairs went completely unnoticed, and he was startled when a soft voice shattered the stillness in the room.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mrs. Hudson cooed softly, knocking politely against the wall where she was peeking in through the open door. John’s cheeks flushed as he made to pull away from Sherlock, but the man’s arms held him fast, so the doctor resignedly buried his face against the fabric covering Sherlock’s chest. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” he mumbled, voice muffled.

Her responding laugh was mirthful and adoring. “Oh, young souls in love,” she cooed as she entered the room, and John turned his head to peek and see her carrying a tray of goodies for the three of them. “Live and let live; that’s my motto.” She cast him a sly wink that had him blushing further and smiling radiantly against Sherlock’s sternum.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said sweetly, finally relinquishing John from his hold, and he crossed the floor to take the tray from the landlady’s hands while placing a grateful kiss delicately to her cheek. Something in John’s chest fluttered at the loving display.

“You’re more than welcome, darling.” Mrs. Hudson’s hand reached up to pat Sherlock’s head fondly, before she turned, heading back for the door. “Well, I’ll leave you two be,” she said in lieu of a farewell, but John stopped her.

“Wait,” he called out, “you’re not joining us?”

“Of course she is,” Sherlock announced, casually kicking over a stack of heavy academic books off of the side-table next to the black leather chair by the fireplace, replacing the toppled texts with the silver tea tray. He stood to his full height and smiled at John, who promptly retrieved a chair from the kitchen to set between the leather chair, and the red armchair that sat across from it. 

“Come on,” John said, relishing the look of heartfelt glee that glimmered in their landlady’s eyes. “Sherlock told me he helped you on a case in the States and left out all of the fun details. I’m  _ dying _ to know the whole story,” he said, motioning to the red armchair with a nod. 

“Oh, goodness,” Mrs. Hudson said, fanning herself briefly, eyes looking towards the ceiling as she stepped forward. “How much time do we have?” She chuckled as she took a seat, and John noticed as he sat down in the wooden kitchen chair and looked to where Sherlock was already pouring tea from the porcelain teapot, that there were  _ three _ matching teacups sitting primly on the tray.

He and Sherlock shared a secret, knowing smile as the brunette passed over a teacup on its matching saucer (one lump of sugar, no milk) for him to hand to Mrs. Hudson, who accepted with a soft word of thanks.

Five accumulative cups of tea later (Mrs. Hudson had declined a second cup while Sherlock and John helped themselves to seconds), the biscuits had all been eaten (almost all of them by Sherlock), and the trio were laughing, at Sherlock’s expense, as Mrs. Hudson detailed for them the lighter points in their acquaintanceship oversees.

“And then the poor boy was stuck using his American accent throughout the entire case, lest he be found out.” Her words dissolved into giggles and John’s own laughter filled the room along with hers, whilst Sherlock sat back in his leather armchair with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, though his lips were curled in a bemused grin.

“The worst part was that I had used a Midwestern accent,” Sherlock supplied for John’s benefit, “not realising that the subtle nuances of different regional dialects are apparently highly distinguishable to Americans themselves.”

“Couldn’t you have just said you were a tourist?” John asked as his laughter died down.

“I could have,” Sherlock acquiesced with a tilt of his head, “only my backstory was that I was from California.”

John was thoroughly perplexed until Mrs. Hudson chimed in.

“He had people asking him how he survived there given he’s pale as a sheet,” she recalled, “and his ‘a’s were entirely wrong.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head at the brunette. “If you’d consulted me, I would have told you.”

“How was I to know?” Sherlock raised his hands in mock-defensiveness. “I’d never been there. I assumed, since it was on the other side of the bloody country, I’d be in the clear.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson chided, “but  _ Americans _ are aware of the fact that California is generally  _ sunny. _ ”

“I want to hear your American accent,” John interjected, looking at Sherlock’s horrified face with a grin. “Come on,” he coaxed, sitting forward in his seat, placing his emptied teacup and its saucer back onto the silver tea tray.

Sherlock’s stricken look dissolved into one of mild annoyance before he cleared his throat, and after a long moment, opened his mouth. “ _Are there more birds_.” The words with their rounded ‘r’s barely left his lips before John burst into a fit of riotous laughter. Sherlock scowled as Mrs. Hudson’s dainty giggles bubbled up from her own throat. “Alright,” he said, his normal accent returning. “I do believe we’re done here.” He made to stand, but John reached out to lightly grasp the man’s wrist.

“Oh, come on,” he protested, “we’re just having a bit of fun.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “I know. But it is getting late, and I’d hate to keep Mrs. Hudson up all night.” His eyes flicked back to their landlady, who sighed as her laughter came to an end.

“He’s right,” she agreed, smiling as she stood. “It’s nearly time for my herbal soothers. Once I take them, I’ll be as good as dead to the world.”

“ _ Herbal soothers, _ ” Sherlock murmured, earning a playful smack on the arm.

“Quiet, you,” she chided. “They’re for my hip,” she explained to John, who smirked.

“Mmhm. Do you need help with that tray?”

The offer was rejected with a polite shake of Mrs. Hudson’s head as she bent at the waist to pick up the tray. “No. It’s much lighter now anyway. And the trip down is easier on the joints than the trip up.” 

They exchanged their farewells and John saw Mrs. Hudson to the door, waving at her as she rounded the landing to the second set of descending stairs, before he let himself sigh pleasantly, closing the flat door and leaning back against it. Noticing his self-satisfied smile, Sherlock ambled over, his lips forming a similar grin. “All worn out?” he asked.

John’s smile turned wolfish. “You planning on wearing me out further?”

Sherlock chuckled darkly. “It’s on the agenda.” His voice wrapped lushly around John, and the doctor basked in the shudder that ran down his spine at the implication those words held. “But I thought we might go to dinner first. To… celebrate.”

The suggestion had John’s eyebrows lifting in pleasant surprise. “Really? You want to celebrate? With dinner? Like, a proper dinner?”

“Mm. And wine.”

John’s smile returned. “That’d be lovely,” he said. “Though I’m not sure how I’m going to pay for it.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lips lifted in a smirk. “Not to worry; I’ve got it covered.”

 

\--

 

“Anything you want, on the house! For you, and for your date.”

John had to bite his lip to stifle the chuckle that attempted to rise out of his throat at the sight of Sherlock being positively  _ manhandled _ by the boisterous restaurant owner who’d come to personally welcome them, introducing himself to John as Angelo in a thick Italian accent. His large, meaty hands were clasping Sherlock’s bony shoulders, giving the young man a good-natured shake as his chocolate-brown eyes stared widely at John. “This man got me out of a murder charge,” he said, voice hushed. “Cleared my name.”

“I cleared it a bit,” Sherlock mumbled modestly, though John noticed the small, proud smile that crept onto his lips.

“I’ll have the mushroom risotto,” John said politely with a smile, and Angelo pointed a finger at him.

“Grand choice,” he praised. “I’ll make it myself. And for you, Sherlock, your regular?”

Sherlock gave a nod. “And a bottle of red, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Angelo’s dark eyebrows nearly disappeared into his receding hairline. “Oh, special occasion?” he asked, a chuckle rumbling from deep in his rounded belly. “Only the best. I’ll be right back.”

Once alone, John gave a soft laugh and put his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together beneath his chin as he smiled across the table at Sherlock. Angelo returned swiftly with a bottle of wine, two wine glasses, and a candle; the latter of which he set in the middle of the table with a hushed “ _ more romantic _ ” in John’s direction, before he poured each man a generous amount of wine. “Dinner will arrive momentarily,” he announced, before bidding them farewell for the time being.

The wine appeared deep and rich, and its presentation was reflected in its flavour profile; John took a sip and hummed as the lukewarm liquid washed over his tongue. He struggled to comprehend the depth and complexity of it, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate it. “It’s nice,” he said with a nod as he set his glass down.

Sherlock, whose depth and complexity John similarly struggled to comprehend, but more than appreciated, smiled. “Glad you enjoy it.” The brunette took a sip of his own wine, and John’s eyes were drawn to the buttons on the front of the man’s silky, plum shirt, which seemed to strain with his movements. He’d be concerned about one of them flying off and hitting him square in the face if he weren’t so preoccupied being absolutely bewitched by how the sinfully tight garment deliciously outlined Sherlock’s lean frame. He swiftly hid his grin behind his wine glass as he took another tentative sip.

“So,” he said as he held the glass in his hand, narrowing his eyes at the dark liquid as he swirled it around inside the crystalline chalice. “When did you find the time to move all of your things into the flat?” His eyes shifted to Sherlock and his lips quirked in a smirk.

“Mycroft took care of it,” the man replied easily before taking another sip of wine.

John rolled his eyes. “Of course he did.” His head shook as he set his glass down and perched his chin in the palm of his hand. “He didn’t leave much room for _ my _ things. When am I going to move my stuff?”

Sherlock leveled a look at the doctor. “You… don’t exactly  _ own _ much, John,” he said; which, John suppoosed, was true. He made it a point to live as minimally as possible. Nearly all of his possessions could fit into his army duffle… which was rather the point.

He hummed in assent. “Alright, I’ll give you that.”

“Besides,” Sherlock continued, “Mycroft is taking care of it. His minions will box up all of your things and bring them to the flat. He’s already negotiated the termination of your lease with your landlord. Everything is settled.”

John’s jaw nearly hit the table. “Awfully confident that I’d agree to move in with you, hm?” he asked, a mildly dubious look clouding his features.

Sherlock gave a half-shrug. “Yes.”

The blond looked at his partner for a long moment, before the smile that was fighting to stretch his lips shined through. John shook his head with a long-suffering sigh. “I can’t even be annoyed with you,” he mused, and Sherlock grinned triumphantly. John lifted his wine glass again, scrutinizing the crimson fluid as he held it beneath his nose. “How do normal people function without a Mycroft?” he asked in a mumble.

“Probably very happily,” Sherlock replied sardonically, causing John to snort into his wine. He rose his head to look at Sherlock, eyes shining.

“You’re probably right.”

Angelo returned shortly after with two plates; one with delicious-looking mushroom risotto presented to John, the other deposited before Sherlock, and John espied on his plate fine pasta stained with red sauce, with little sprigs of vibrant green herbs adding an aesthetically-pleasing and aromatic finish.

They thanked the man graciously for the meal and dug in, their conversation ebbing and flowing effortlessly, quiet words mingling in the air with the sounds of flatware brushing against porcelain, and, after a while, the mild splashing of refilling wine glasses.

 

\--

 

Drunk on wine and elation, Sherlock and John stumbled gracelessly, hand-in-hand, down the paved, dimly-lit London streets the three-and-a-half blocks back to 221 Baker Street. They’d been forced to vacate their spot by the large front windows of Angelo’s establishment when the owner announced he was closing for the evening; by that point, Sherlock and John had polished off the first bottle of wine and had opened a second, each enjoying four (or had it been five?) glasses over the course of the evening. (John had noticed Sherlock slipping four twenty-quid notes under the edge of his plate for Angelo’s trouble.)

At one point in their journey home, John attempted to serenade his companion with an off-key and out-of-tempo rendition of one of Frank Sinatra’s hits:

“‘Cause I looooove you- and the way you look toooniiiight,” he crooned as they rounded the final corner onto their street, and Sherlock giggled gleefully, cheeks stained a rosy hue from alcohol and embarrassment. 

“You’re an idiot,” he managed to say, words dulled by the drink as well as by his giggles.

John grinned as he turned and tugged Sherlock’s hand, pulling their bodies together and savouring the surprised sound that left the brunette’s mouth. “I’m  _ your _ idiot,” he amended sapily, kissing a spot on Sherlock’s jaw he was able to reach, feeling Sherlock’s responding hum vibrating through the bone just under the skin beneath his lips.

“C’mon,” Sherlock beckoned, showing admirable self-control as he pulled away and tugged on John’s hand, leading them to the front door of their new home. They found the door blessedly unlocked, so they didn’t have to fumble with keys; instead, they fumbled with buttons and zippers, John turning Sherlock around to press him back against the foyer wall as his hands deftly plucked each of Sherlock’s coat buttons free while the other man worked at John’s jacket. The doctor’s hands parted the dark fabric to flatten his palms against the silky shirt concealing Sherlock’s stomach, letting his hands greedily glide up the man’s torso, feeling the dips between each rib before smoothing over subtly-defined pectorals.

The coat was pushed off of Sherlock’s shoulders and forgotten as it fell to the floor, and John’s jacket followed soon after. But just as John made to push Sherlock against the wall again, his hand was grasped in a larger one and he was being led up the stairs. Their feet tangled together as the two men attempted to exchange kisses whilst climbing, and they both burst into giggles as they clumsily ascended the steps, hands alternating between the handrails and each other’s bodies.

Finally, the door of their new flat shut solidly behind them and John had just enough wherewithal to lock the door before he was being pulled by the arm down the hallway, past the kitchen and into the bedroom at the end of the corridor. It was his first time in the room, but he hardly cared enough to look at the decor; he was just thankful that the clutter in the sitting room hadn’t found its way into this part of the flat, his feet mercifully not catching on any stray furnishings as he was crowded against one wall.

His breath caught in his throat and his sound of surprise was swallowed by Sherlock’s eager mouth as their lips connected in an open-mouthed kiss that was a little sloppy, a little uncoordinated, but absolutely perfect. John’s hands flew to Sherlock’s head, fingers tangling messily into windswept curls and gripping, hard enough to make Sherlock whine loudly into his mouth. “Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, and Sherlock hummed in the affirmative before biting John’s lip, causing the doctor to groan.

A sober John might have been a touch put off by the fact that Sherlock tasted like tea, tomato-based sauce, garlic bread, and wine, but in his current state, he couldn’t think of a more palatable flavour, because this flavour was  _ Sherlock _ and Sherlock was  _ perfect _ and the slick slide of their tongues against each other was  _ perfect _ and the feeling of Sherlock’s hands slipping under his jumper was  _ perfect- _

“ _ John. _ ” He heard his own name fall reverently from Sherlock’s lips as their mouths parted with a wet smack, and John let his head rest against the wall as Sherlock’s mouth relocated to a spot on the tender underside of his jaw. The doctor’s knees began to buckle at the barest scrape of teeth against his flesh, one of his hands falling from Sherlock’s hair to grasp at the man’s shoulder as he panted at the ceiling. His mouth dropped open with a noisy sigh when Sherlock’s hands crept up his torso to rub his thumbs over the sensitive peaks of John’s nipples, the action paired with Sherlock sucking on a patch of soft skin on the side of his neck, drawing a pitiful moan from John’s throat.

“ _ God, _ your  _ mouth _ ,” John groaned, and Sherlock’s lips parted from John’s neck long enough to speak. 

“What about it?” His voice was gravelly, easily half an octave lower than its normal pitch. It sent shivers down John’s spine.

“I want it,” was all John managed to gasp out.

In response, Sherlock grunted as his fingers grasped at the thick fabric of John’s jumper as well as the vest beneath to tug upwards, the garments bunching up under John’s arms before the blond got the hint, raising his arms above his head so the shirts could be shed. They fell to the floor in a wadded-up heap. The next thing to hit the floor was Sherlock, who fell to his knees, one of John’s hands still in his hair, to fumble with the fastenings of John’s jeans.

John chose to forego keeping his hand in Sherlock’s hair in favour of aided in pushing the rough fabric of his jeans down over his hips and partway down his thighs. Without preamble, Sherlock pressed his nose and open mouth against the tented cotton barely concealing John’s burgeoning tumescence, and the doctor sighed noisily as he watched through glossy eyes, hands finding their way back to Sherlock’s curly head as though drawn there by magnets.

Apparently through with mouthing at the outline of John’s cock, Sherlock pulled at the waistband of his pants until they were bunched up just above John’s knees with his jeans, and wasted no time in wrapping his elegant fingers around the thick base of the man’s length. John watched, holding his breath in anticipation until it burned white hot in his lungs, only letting it escape once supple lips enveloped the head of his cock in velvety warmth.

“Fuck,” he groaned, one hand moving to caress the side of Sherlock’s face, biting his bottom lip hard when the mad, brilliant man took more of John in his mouth and John could  _ feel _ himself through the thin skin of Sherlock’s cheek. He whimpered softly and let his hand fall to cup Sherlock’s jaw, tilting the man’s head up a fraction so they could lock eyes, and  _ damn _ , he didn’t know if That had been a splendid idea, or if it would be his undoing; Sherlock’s eyes were heavily-lidded, absurdly long and dark lashes fluttering over his mercurial irises that were nearly entirely eclipsed by dark pupils blown wide with lust, his gaze hazy from the drink. But the alcohol didn’t diminish his skill; oh, no, that clever tongue hadn’t lost an ounce of its agility, twisting round the smooth head of John’s length inside his mouth with determination as Sherlock began to slowly bob his head.

Transfixed, John watched on as his gradually-hardening member disappeared into that glorious mouth, inch by inch, until Sherlock was close to gagging as his nose nestled in the coarse, dark blond hair at John’s groin. A desperate sound left John’s lips when Sherlock swallowed, sending a wave of pleasure through him, making lust-fuelled heat coil tightly in his gut.

“God, you brilliant thing,” he crooned, combing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair until he was cradling the back of the man’s head. Sherlock hummed at the compliment, the sound low and rumbling. John shivered. “You look absolutely divine, bruising your precious knees just to taste me-  _ oh _ , fuck.” John didn’t normally resort to talking dirty, but the enthusiasm with which Sherlock began moving his head up and down John’s shaft in addition to the wanton sounds he made told John that his lewd words were going over fairly well with Sherlock. Unfortunately, he didn’t think he had the wherewithal to continue, as Sherlock’s mouth steadily, but quickly, reduced his mental faculties to mush.

His fingers tightened in Sherlock’s hair, and John felt rather than heard the resulting hum of satisfaction reverberating through his hardened flesh and making his vision crackle. Sherlock’s cheeks hollowed and he sucked, hard, accelerating the pace at which he took John into his throat again and again, eyes screwed shut in concentration. His hand returned to the base of John’s cock and it twisted, tugged in tandem to match the tempo his mouth had set, saliva rendering the slide of his hand effortlessly smooth. John was quickly reduced to soft, panting moans and utterances of Sherlock’s name intermingled with swears and prayers and everything in-between, until he tugged  _ hard _ on the man’s locks.

“Close,” he warned on a breath, and he’d have been afraid Sherlock hadn’t heard if it weren’t for the delighted moan paired with an enthusiastic tempo increase. “Fuck, Sherlock, oh  _ God _ -“ John fell silent as his body stiffened, mouth dropping open as his muscles clenched, pleasure sparking under his skin as the first pulse of warm release filled Sherlock’s mouth. He gasped as his vision faded to black around the edges, framing his bird’s-eye view with a vignette filter; his blood flowed red and rich and warm like wine and rushed in his ears to mingle with the satisfied sounds of Sherlock below him as the man greedily devoured his essence.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John whispered, breath ragged as his fingers ceased their gripping in Sherlock’s hair as another warm pulse of cum emptied onto the man’s waiting tongue. Sherlock’s mouth had retreated to cradle the tip of John’s length just behind his pouting lips, and his hand did the rest of the work, slowly but firmly stroking along John’s shaft to ease out what left John had to give. The doctor trembled as the last drops of fluid were pulled from his rapidly-softening cock, and the muscles in his thighs strained as he struggled to keep himself upright.

Finally, Sherlock let John’s mostly-flaccid length fall from his lips, and he looked up at John with enchantingly ruddy cheeks. His chest rose and fell with his laboured breaths as he sat back on his haunches, and his spit-slickened lips stretched into a lazy smile. “Have I mentioned that I love your cock?” he asked in a drawl that had John chuckling as his head fell back to rest against the wall.

“I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say that it loves you, too.” He closed his eyes and grinned stupidly at the ceiling, listening to Sherlock stand before he felt the man’s hands frame his bare hips.

“And what of its owner?”

“Hm?” John hummed as his eyes opened and his grin broadened as his brain slowly managed to interpret the inquiry. “Mm. Haven’t I told you that I love you yet?” he asked dreamily, tongue loosened by the alcohol coursing through his blood along with the burst of seratonin.

“Not yet,” Sherlock mused with an adoring smile, leaning in to place a kiss at the corner of John’s mouth. “Tell me again in the morning when norepinephrine and oxytocin aren’t rendering you completely inept.”

John snorted. “God, you’re eloquent even when you’re plastered.”

“And you’re an idiot.”

“And you’re  _ sexy _ .”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though his grin broadened. “As are you. Idiot,” he said fondly, hands leaving John’s hips in favour of undoing the buttons of his dress shirt which John belatedly noticed he was still wearing. Which was not acceptable at all.

“Lemme help,” John slurred, fingers beginning the laborious task of undoing Sherlock’s trousers; he worked like a thief keying into a safe but with much less finesse, cursing whoever it was who decided dress trousers needed to have extra little hooks on the inside because apparently buttons didn’t lend enough security, before making a triumphant sound as the fastenings fell undone. He pushed at the fabric until it slid partway down Sherlock’s pale thighs, and by that time, Sherlock had managed to shed his shirt. The brunette stepped back to shimmy out of his trousers, pushing his briefs down with them, clumsily toeing out of his shoes and somehow magically stepping out of them, his socks, and his bunched-up trousers and pants in one fluid motion. John envied him.

“How long until you’re ready again?” the man asked, and John huffed a laugh as he bent down to assist himself in the removing of his shoes, socks, and other unnecessary clothes. 

“Give me... eight minutes,” he murmured, nearly tripping out of his clothes, using the wall behind him for support.

Sherlock’s voice sounded from a few metres away. “God, I’m blessed,” he sighed, and John looked up to see the man’s bare backside in the air as he bent over the large bed in the middle of the room to snatch the pillows from where they rested at the head of the mattress.

He smiled. “Oh, lovely.” Predatory, would be an apt word to describe the way he advanced towards the bed, hands gravitating to Sherlock’s arse seemingly of their own accord. Sherlock hummed at the contact, staying bent over the bed and even going so far as to lower his upper half until he was resting on his elbows, and he artfully arched his back, spine curving so that his stomach just barely brushed the neatly-made duvet while his chest rose away from the mattress.

John let out a low whistle as he appreciated the intoxicating sight. One of his hands smoothed over the swell of Sherlock’s pert arse and continued up his lower back, admiring the little dimples that framed the base of his spine, calloused fingers traveling upwards to the strong jut of one shoulder blade. His fingers curled then around Sherlock’s shoulder, and he let himself image taking Sherlock this way, bent over the bed- 

A pang of need shot through him, and he distantly wondered if it’d take him less than eight minutes to work himself up again. But until then… 

His hand released Sherlock’s shoulder and skimmed back down the length of the man’s spine before both hands gripped at the yielding flesh of his backside. John imagined he could feel the shudder that he saw make its way through Sherlock’s body as he massaged the flesh in his hands. Then it was his turn to drop to his knees, and Sherlock let out a soft whimper of anticipation, feet sliding across the hardwood floor to spread his legs wider without any prompting from John.

The blond would probably regret kneeling on the floor in the morning, but for now the sight of Sherlock, eager and already very obviously hard, was enough to convince John that the temporary discomfort was well worth it.

“You are gorgeous like this,” he murmured (though Sherlock was always gorgeous), and he opened his mouth wide to sink his teeth softly, playfully, into the soft flesh of one perfect arse cheek.

“Ah! Fuck!” Sherlock exclaimed, body jolting in surprise at the sting of mild pain, but not pulling away; if anything, he actually pushed  _ into _ John’s face, before ducking his head and burying his own face in the plush duvet.

John pulled back after a long moment and savoured the indentations of his own teeth, forming a near-perfect circle, marring Sherlock’s porcelain skin. It may even be enough to leave a little bruising.  _ Pity _ , John thought with a wicked grin as his thumb smoothed soothingly over the marks, wiping away a bit of saliva. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, some part of him genuinely worried, as he hadn’t given any warning.

“No,” Sherlock breathed, his voice sounding thick, the swallow that followed audible to John’s ears.

“Mm. Good,” he said, before glancing to the bedside table. “Lube?”

In answer, one of Sherlock’s hands rose from the bed to gesture flippantly at the bedside table, and John leaned over to open the drawer. He located the bottle of lubricant and uncapped it, squirting a generous amount of the cold gel onto his fingers before warming it up in his hand. Repositioning himself behind Sherlock, whose body had visibly relaxed, he pulled one arse cheek aside before running one slick finger over the man’s entrance.

Sherlock sighed tremulously, feet parting fractionally wider, much to John’s delight. He pressed his index finger insistently against the tight ring of muscle until it gave way and his finger was sucked inside. Sherlock made a soft noise but didn’t tell John to stop when the blond eased his digit out and back in, building up to a slow, steady pace as he began fingering his partner; this would buy him some time to get himself worked up once again.

As he worked his way up to two fingers, he pressed the pads of both down along the front wall inside Sherlock, seeking out his pleasure point, and he grinned when Sherlock groaned softly. The man’s cock twitched where it hung heavy and untouched between his legs, and the muscles of his thighs quivered minutely. John leaned forward to pepper soft kisses to the back of one thigh, his free hand smoothing up the other leg as his fingers twisted round inside Sherlock’s arse.

“How are you doing?” he asked in a murmur against Sherlock’s skin.

“Brilliantly,” the brunette reported on a sigh. “And yourself?”

John hummed thoughtfully And glanced down at his own prick, which was, miraculously, beginning to slowly fill once again with blood. “Getting there,” he replied easily with a smirk.

Another couple of minutes found Sherlock breathing labouredly under John’s teasing fingers and John’s cock nearly fully hard again between his own legs. He bit his lip as he pistoned his fingers slowly, brushing against Sherlock’s swollen prostate on every other push inward, and his other hand reached down to coax himself into a state of full erectness. “You ready for me?” he asked, to which Sherlock let out a needy moan in response.

“ _ God _ , yes.  _ Please. _ ”

John smiled as he shifted to stand; his joints protested, and he’d  _ definitely _ be feeling  _ that _ in the morning - but it hardly mattered to him now, because Sherlock Holmes was quivering, back arching once again, craning his neck to look over his shoulder, cheeks flushed and lips parted, a hungry look in his heavily-lidded eyes.

Swiping the bottle of lube from where it’d been discarded on the bed, John hastily prepared himself with a generous amount of the cool, water-based gel before tossing the bottle away once more and wiping his fingers clean on the duvet. His hands moved, one of them holding Sherlock open while the other steadied his cock as his hips moved forward. He slid the lubricated head of his prick up the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, relishing the quiet gasp that emitted from under him when he caught on the gaping rim of the man’s entrance.

“Quit your teasing,” Sherlock said, admirably able to sound petulant despite his breathlessness.

John grinned. “You’re in no position to be giving orders,” he murmured, though he complied; only because he himself was just as eager as the bossy prat who was pushing his arse back needily. He steadied himself and let out a slow breath as he pushed, the ruddy head of his cock slipping almost effortlessly past the first loosened ring of muscle. Sherlock groaned appreciatively, and as John pushed in another inch, the man shuddered and dropped his head to hang between his shoulders.

“You good?” John asked through clenched teeth, and Sherlock hummed in the affirmative. Taking another breath and holding it in his lungs, John pulled slightly back before pushing again, working in incremental, slow thrusts until his hips connected with the plush flesh of Sherlock’s backside.

Sherlock was shaking. John suspected it resulted from the combination of holding himself in the same position for so long, as well as anticipation; he felt it, too. And when Sherlock’s lips parted to utter the breathy command, “ _ move, _ ” John didn’t hesitate.

He pulled back, savouring the sweet, tight grip of Sherlock’s muscles trying to keep him inside, before he pushed forward again, sheathing himself completely. Then he repeated the action. Again. And again. Sherlock let out a shaky sigh with each slow thrust inward, and John savoured every sound, basking in it, closing his eyes and tipping his head back as his hands found Sherlock’s slender hips.

“God, you feel amazing.” It was a gross understatement on John’s part, uttered in a breathy voice, but Sherlock appreciated it nonetheless if the brief tightening of the man’s muscles around him was any indication. John hissed through his teeth and tipped his head forward as he gradually increased the tempo at which he moved his hips. He watched, mesmerised, as his length disappeared, reappeared, disappeared again; and it wasn’t long until Sherlock was rocking, using his forearms on the bed to ground himself, pushing back against John in time with the blond’s thrusts.

John changed his tactics, shifting his hips for another, better angle; and he succeeded in his efforts to locate Sherlock’s prostate once again, brushing against it, making the other man gasp and move one hand to grip at the sheets. Sherlock’s resounding moan was music to John’s ears, and he pursed his lips and grunted softly as he began to thrust a little harder, a little faster.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock whimpered as John’s grip on his hips tightened, and the blond sucked in a breath as he pulled back roughly on Sherlock’s hips in time with his forward thrusts. Sherlock yelped and fisted the duvet with both hands now, his knuckles turning bone-white with the strain of his grip. “John- God- fuck-  _ yes _ -“ the man gasped out, voice hitching as the undulations of John’s hips increased in tempo and intensity both.

“ _ Christ _ , Sherlock.” John’s words were little more than a raspy whisper. His bottom lip found its way between his teeth as he bucked his hips wildly, the sound of flesh-meeting-flesh mingling with the sounds of their ragged breaths and the slight scraping of the wooden bed posts on the hardwood floor below. “Are you close? At all?” he managed, and Sherlock’s response came in the form of garbled, nonsensical sounds of near-hysteria, which John took to be a good sign.

He removed one hand from Sherlock’s hip to wrap his arm around the man’s waist. He leaned forward, his thrusts remaining relentless as his newly-freed hand wrapped around Sherlock’s hard length. The brunette’s cock was leaking, nearly dripping with pre-cum, making the slide of John’s hand smooth as he quickly began stroking the hot, hardened flesh. Sherlock cried out and threw his head back, and John was treated to the sight of the man’s eyes screwed shut and mouth open in pure bliss. “Come on,” he coaxed, “you beautiful thing- come on, come- oh  _ fuck _ .”

Sherlock’s climax was sudden and violent, his warm release spilling over John’s hand as a sob tore from his throat. His body writhed, desperately pushing back against John’s erratic thrusts, knees buckling and thighs trembling, hands scrambling for purchase on the mattress, lungs gasping for air.

John’s stamina gave completely when Sherlock’s muscles gripped tightly around him, and he cursed as he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he reached his own shattering climax for the second time that evening.

Both of their bodies stilled save for the rise and fall of their chests and the twitching of strained muscles. John’s hand relinquished its hold on Sherlock’s softening length, and he took a small, staggering step backwards to let his own slip from within Sherlock with a soft moan. The entrancing sight of the man’s slickened hole closing around nothing held his focus until Sherlock groaned pitifully from where his face was pressed against the duvet.

“Hmm,” John hummed, sighing as he stooped to pick up his discarded boxers to hastily wipe the mix of semen and lube from his groin, before stepping forward to gently clean in and around the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. The fabric came away damp in his hand, and he tapped Sherlock’s hip with the other. “Turn over.”

“Mmnnph.” Sherlock’s groan was stifled by the duvet. John smirked.

“Come on. You’ll get all stiff lying like that.”

The detective sighed heavily and slowly moved his arms from where they were splayed out to his sides, the sheets remaining rumpled from where he’d clenched at them as his hands readjusted to shakily push himself up. He lifted one knee to place on the mattress, then the other, and he made a half-hearted attempt to crawl most of the way onto the bed before flipping over to land on his back with a grunt. John snorted in amusement as he leaned over to gingerly clean away the pearlescent fluid from Sherlock’s groin and lower stomach with a dry patch of fabric. He noticed as he tossed away his boxers that there was a damp, soiled spot on the duvet at the edge of the mattress where Sherlock had been bent over, but he’d save the washing up for tomorrow. For now, he was eager to join his lover in the bed; and so he did, tugging back the duvet (with some amount of difficulty, seeing as Sherlock was lying atop it), eventually managing to coax the man into maneuvering underneath it with him.

They both sighed in tandem as John pulled the duvet up to cover them up to their shoulders, and Sherlock turned onto his side, closing what little distance there was between them to nestle his face into the crook of John’s neck. John, in turn, turned onto his side to face the brunette. One arm slid under the pillow beneath his own head, and the other hand sought Sherlock’s chin to lift it so he could gaze upon his partner’s face. He was spellbound by the myriad of emotions swimming in Sherlock’s eyes, polychromic and cloudy with residual drunkenness and lust and so many nameless emotions.

Though he realised, as their gazes remained locked, that they  _ did _ have names; elation, satisfaction, gratitude, affection,  _ love _ \-- and John felt the same emotions brimming within his chest.

“I love you,” he blurted out in a whisper, and he watched as Sherlock’s cheeks flushed. The man’s mouth stretched into a lazy grin and his eyes closed as he turned his head to bury half of his face into his pillow.

“I told you; tell me again in the morning.”

And John planned to. He smiled brightly. “I will,” he promised. “And I’ll tell you every morning.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock was still grinning stupidly. “Go to sleep.”

“Mmh. Don’t need to tell me twice.” John was quickly fading, his breaths growing ever more shallow, the urge to close his eyes becoming stronger as the second ticked by. “G’night, Sherlock,” he whispered, finally giving in to temptation and letting his eyelids flutter closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side-note, yet another thing I've learned is that I have a tendency to end chapters with someone falling asleep. Does it get monotonous and predictable? Probably. Oh well. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	22. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. The zenith. The resolution. The final chapter.
> 
> Read and be merry. Hope you enjoy, and I'll see y'all in the End Notes.

Waking up next to Sherlock had been one of the more pleasant side-effects of the man’s withdrawal; it meant he slept in, and John was treated to the sight of soft morning light cutting through raven curls, of a dried trail of drool drawing a line from the corner of dry, parted lips to a small damp spot on the pillow, and the sound of a barely-there snore. Apparently these sleeping habits didn’t transfer over to sober-and-healthy Sherlock’s life. He was back to keeping odd hours, which meant John woke up alone; even after a night of drunken, enthusiastic shagging. Which, it turned out, John didn’t mind at all, because _that_ meant that the blond got to sprawl supine on the sheets that were of a noticeably higher thread-count than that which he normally slept on. He could get used to this.

John sighed indulgently, blinking his eyes open blearily to look at an unfamiliar ceiling with a small smile. His head was mildly aching, an unfortunate side-effect of enjoying five glasses of rich, red wine over dinner, and his muscles protested John’s mere existence; an unfortunate side-effect of a passionate night of lovemaking. John found he didn’t mind in the slightest.

He let his head fall to the side to glance at the digital clock that sat atop the bedside table. 08:42. He had to be to work in just over an hour, but that wasn’t what had him staring, wide-eyed, at the small table. The sight of a bottle of water and two small tablets of what John could only assume was paracetamol, had warmth blossoming in his chest. He found himself smiling as he pushed to sit up, reaching over to gingerly pick up the pills and water. As he unscrewed the cap of the bottle, he took a moment to glance around the room; the curtains that hung over the windows were sheer and white, and parted just enough to let the rays of the sunrise gleam through, illuminating the better part of the room, which was, to John’s surprise, nothing short of immaculate. The furnishings were bare; a large wardrobe with a full-length mirror on the front against one wall; a single bookshelf against another; a handful of framed documents hanging on the walls, including a periodic table, what looked like an old, handwritten manuscript, and a parchment with Japanese characters that John could make out; a dresser on John’s side of the bed (how much clothing storage does one man need?) upon which sat a small mirror, a framed photo of the Paris skyline, and something else John couldn’t quite see.

After popping the capsules into his mouth and washing them down with the graciously provided water, John pushed the sheets away from him and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Gooseflesh rose over his skin at the exposure to the air, which felt cool after being enveloped in the plush feather duvet. He stood, taking another mouthful of water, and his bare feet padded against the bare floor, and his free hand reached out to lift what appeared to be a tipped-over picture frame that sat on the dresser.

Upon seeing the youthful, rounded faces beaming happily at him, John laughed, the sound soft, adoring, and surprised; the photograph depicted a very young Sherlock, his familiar curls a slightly lighter shade of brown that seemed to glow almost amber in the sunlight in the photo, standing shoulder-to-shoulder (or rather, shoulder-to-bicep) alongside a ginger-haired youth, who John could only assume was Mycroft. It was a captured moment of rare happiness that John never would have guessed existed, given the rivalry that so clearly, so effortlessly seemed to drive a stake through the heart of the relationship of the two brothers. John wondered somberly what happened to turn these two young, smiling children with windswept hair and sun-kissed cheeks into enemies. But then again, he and Harry were the same way, thick as thieves once upon a time; nowadays she was almost as familiar as just another stranger passing him by on the street.

He left the photo where he’d found it, face-down next to the picture of Paris, and turned with a small sigh to round the bed to gather his clothes. But when he rounded the bed, his eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline in shock and mild panic when he found his clothes, along with Sherlock’s, mysteriously missing. He cursed softly. Not wanting to take a page out of Sherlock’s book and grab a sheet from the bed to wrap himself in, and not wishing to stroll about the flat starkers just in case Mrs. Hudson came snooping, he looked around for another viable option - and found it hanging on the back of a glass-paneled door that led to the bathroom.

It was a dressing gown of lush crimson, the fabric light and soft between John’s fingertips. He smiled as he took it off of the hook on the back of the door and wrapped it around himself, the sleeves roomy enough to allow for both John’s hand and the water bottle it held to slip through effortlessly. He had to forego the bottle, though, to tie the silky ribbon round his waist. As he turned to replace the bottle on the nightstand, he espied a long, slender rapier mounted to the wall next to the bed. Frowning in bewilderment, he ambled over to inspect it more closely, staring in some amount of wonder at the extravagant silver cage hilt before reading the small, silver plaque underneath the sword. It was for a first-place win at the ‘ _Camford Sports Society’_ , dated 2011. John smiled; this man was absolutely incredible.

Shaking his head with a soft chuckle, he turned to go through the glass-paneled door to the bathroom where he quickly relieved himself. As he moved to wash his hands, he caught sight of a toothbrush still in its wrappings, fresh from the shops. He blinked; had Sherlock gone out and bought it for him? There was another toothbrush resting beside it that looked used, so John felt he had no other option than to assume it was indeed meant for him. So, after drying his hands, he unpackaged the toothbrush and uncapped the nearby toothpaste to make quick work of brushing his teeth

Once satisfied with his state of dental cleanliness he shut off the tap, ruffled his hair habitually in the mirror, and elected to ignore the barest hint of stubble that was forming on his jawline as he made his way out of the bathroom.

The light of the morning that had been streaming in through Sherlock’s bedroom windows was filling the sitting room of the flat with a hazy glow when he emerged from the hallway. He breathed in the scents of recently-brewed coffee and freshly-toasted bread, smiling as his breath left him in a noisy sigh.

“Good morning.”

John turned, smile widening at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, to find the man looking at him with a small smile where he stood before the bench in the kitchen, piece of toast in one hand, a butterknife held aloft in the other.

“Morning,” John rejoined, striding forward slowly to join Sherlock in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” he asked, observing the four pieces of toast piled on a small plate and a small tub of butter sitting in front of Sherlock on the marbled countertop.

“Mm.” Sherlock’s responding hum was immediately followed by the scraping of the butterknife of the perfectly-crusty toast in his large hand.

John smiled. “I’ll pour coffee. Where are your mugs?” He fetched two porcelain cups from the cupboard Sherlock directed him to, and poured coffee into each before reaching for the sugar canister - _black, two sugars_ , he remembered with a grin from their impromptu coffee-date-turned-investigation at the coffee shop over a month ago. Had it really been that long since then? It felt like just yesterday; but in another sense, it felt like years had passed. The thought was evicted from John’s head when Sherlock spoke.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“What are you thinking about?” The question wasn’t intrusive, just inquisitive, soft, genuinely curious. Casual conversation.

John smiled at his partner as he finished fixing their mugs. “Just thinking.”

“You’re thinking awfully loudly.”

The smile widened, and John hummed. “Oh? What am I thinking, then?” he asked as he turned to hand out Sherlock’s prepared mug, which the man took with a smirk, exchanging it with a plate of two pieces of buttered toast.

“You’re thinking… that you had a brilliant time last night,” the man said, taking a step forward and cocking his hip against the bench, resting there with his hands cupping his coffee to his chest.

It wasn’t untrue. John tilted his head and looked down Sherlock’s body, draped in a blue dressing gown, grey pyjama bottoms peeking out from beneath. “What else?” he asked, humouring his detective’s antics.

Sherlock’s smirk remained. “You’re thinking that it’s awfully nice of me to make you such a lovely and well-balanced breakfast,” he said teasingly, eyes shifting to the plate of toast still in John’s hand.

At that, John rolled his eyes, a smirk taking shape on his lips. He reached with his other hand to pick up his coffee.

“And now you’re thinking that I’m an insufferable twat.”

John giggled, the sound warm as his eyes pinched momentarily shut. He turned his head to find Sherlock smiling amusedly back at him. “There’s my genius,” he cooed, turning to face Sherlock fully, taking a step forward, and pushing up on his toes to place a quick peck to the man’s cheek. He pulled back, intending to turn and head to the sitting room, but was surprised when Sherlock’s head followed him, the man leaning down to catch John’s lips in a sweet kiss.

The doctor made a surprised sound, eyelids fluttering briefly before he closed his eyes and smiled against Sherlock’s mouth. He tilted his head slightly, pushing back into the kiss, holding the contact for a few moments more before pulling back. “We have to eat our toast while it’s still warm, love,” he whispered with a grin, and was dazzled by the brightness that bloomed in Sherlock’s eyes; it was one of fondness, elation, and something akin to excitement.

“Alright,” the man whispered back, and John couldn’t resist leaning in to place one more sweet, brief peck on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth before he turned, beaming brighter than the sunlight that poured through the large windows, as he made his way into the sitting room, depositing himself with a sigh into the red armchair. Sherlock followed, taking the black leather chair across from him, and John cast him a smile before picking up a piece of warm toast. As he brought it up to take a bite, he made eye-contact with Sherlock, holding the toast aloft in front of his lips. “No jam?” he asked with a mock-pout.

Sherlock gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. We’ll get some.”

John smiled, the look a little dreamy as he thought of the two of them perusing aisles at the grocery in search of jam and honey and biscuits and PG Tips. It was an almost sickeningly domestic mental image. John basked in it.

Sherlock apparently didn’t notice, his mercurial eyes scrutinizing his toast where he sat across from John. The blond’s smile softened with fondness before he turned his attention to his own breakfast, and took a large bite of his toast.

The pair fell into companionable silence for the next couple minutes, the sounds of London bustling outside with morning traffic just barely audible in their little loft above the street. John was more than halfway through his second piece of toast when he finally spoke.

“Oh. Where are my clothes?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to look at him through dark lashes as he sipped his coffee, before shifting to look to his left towards the other side of the room. John’s gaze followed, and his lips parted in a little smile when he espied on the sofa a folded set of clothes. They were his from the night before.

“Washed them,” Sherlock supplied quietly, the words slightly muffled by the rim of his coffee mug.

“I- thank you, Sherlock,” John said, chest expanding with fondness and gratitude.

Sherlock gave him a soft smile back before returning to his coffee. John’s smile stayed in place as he polished off his buttered toast, wondering how he’d gotten so lucky.

Toast eaten and coffee quaffed, John stood from his chair, holding his hand out for Sherlock’s dishes (he rolled his eyes at the toast crusts left behind on the on the plate - the picky git) and walked them to the sink. “I have to take a shower,” he announced, and turned to find Sherlock slowly rising from his chair with a devious grin. “What?” John asked, freezing with his hands half in the sink, a look of caution on his face.

“I could join you.” Sherlock’s voice was a literal _purr_ as he practically _stalked_ around John’s chair, his motions impossibly fluid and absurdly seductive.

John’s cheeks heated, his gaze involuntarily skimming down Sherlock’s body, already undressing the man with his eyes. “I don’t… think that would be very conducive to me getting ready for work in a timely manner…” His argument was weak, and he knew it.

Sherlock’s smile turned into a Cheshire grin, and he didn’t respond, striding through the kitchen, keeping their eyes locked until he brushed past John, who turned to watch him go, a stunned look on his face as Sherlock went down the hallway to disappear into the bathroom. The sound of running water shortly followed.

“Dammit,” John murmured to himself, though he was grinning madly as he hastily followed.

Sherlock was already in the shower when John entered the bathroom, and he closed the door behind him, glancing at the brunette’s clothes littered about the floor. He untied the belt of his dressing gown and shed it, hanging it neatly on the hook behind the door before moving to knock on the opaque shower door. “Care for some company?”

“I’m amenable,” Sherlock rejoined, his voice echoing off of the tiled walls inside the shower. “Better hurry, though, unless you want me to use up all of the hot water.”

John chuckled, rolling his eyes as he opened the shower door to step inside.

Sharing a shower was not nearly as sexy as Hollywood or written erotica would have you believe. Firstly, there was no way in hell was John going to risk slipping to kneel on the hard porcelain bottom of the tub - his knees were still aching and the slightest bit bruised from the night before - to suck Sherlock off, and he imagined Sherlock wasn’t going to risk it for him, either. Not that he minded; he really did need to get ready for work, and blowjobs, while they could be quick, were time-consuming nonetheless.

Secondly, kissing was rendered dangerous, as water had a tendency of getting into noses and slipping into mouths, rendering things messy, as well as making it rather difficult to properly breathe.

Thirdly, while pushing Sherlock up against the tiled wall of the shower and shagging him senseless provided a wonderful mental image, it certainly wouldn’t be very safe considering there was no way to ensure either of them wouldn’t slip. Add to that the fact that they were on a time crunch, and it didn’t seem likely to John that they’d get up to very much in the shower. And he didn’t mind that at all. This was nice, just sharing this close space with Sherlock.

He thought idly that Sherlock would try for a handjob, and he was so busy trying to think of ways he could speed _that_ up, that he missed Sherlock reaching for a bottle of soap and a luffa, and was surprised when said lathered-up luffa was swept across his chest. He blinked water out of his eyes to look up at Sherlock, and he smiled. “Shampoo?” he asked over the sound of the water.

Sherlock tilted his head towards a green bottle sitting on the little shelf in the corner, and John reached for it as Sherlock moved the luffa over his good shoulder and across his neck. John deposited a bit of pearly fluid in his hand before replacing the bottle, and with a cheeky grin, reached up to rub his hands into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock chuckled, carefully cleaning around and over the scarred front of John’s shoulder with tender precision.

The pair worked, John thoroughly lathering Sherlock’s thick locks, the heady scents of eucalyptus and mint overpowering the lavender of the body soap, Sherlock cleaning meticulously under John’s arms and down his torso. Then they traded; John took the luffa and gingerly but thoroughly cleaned over Sherlock’s shoulders and pectorals as Sherlock began scrubbing shampoo into John’s hair. John’s scalp tingled as it was massaged, and he hummed as he dragged his soapy hand over Sherlock’s ribs, caressing the jut of one prominent hipbone with his thumb. He carefully cleaned around Sherlock’s groin, and stepped closer so their bodies were almost touching so that he could reach around and wash the man’s backside. He grinned mischievously up at Sherlock as his hands curved around globed flesh and squeezed injudgently, and Sherlock huffed through his nose, a slight smirk curling the corner of his lips as he gave a playful tug of warning to John’s hair.

John laughed and continued swiping the luffa over Sherlock’s skin, abandoning his arse in favour of smoothing his hands up the man’s back. Once finished, he couldn’t help but raise up onto his toes to place a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips. He squinted as suds threatened to wash into his eyes. “Here,” he said, handing the soapy luffa over before stepping fully under the spray to rinse his hair and body off quickly. Sherlock took the time to efficiently scrub his own legs and feet before switching spots with John to rinse his own hair, and John took the opportunity to scrub down his own lower half.

“Here,” Sherlock said after he was rinsed, “switch me spots. You condition your hair, I’ll wash your back, then rinse off; you have to get going soon.”

John obeyed with a nod, grabbing the other bottle of soap from the shelf and getting a small palmful of conditioner to quickly scrub through his hair. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes tightly as he stepped under the spray, fingers still working through his short locks, and he smiled as he felt Sherlock running the luffa over the backs of his shoulders, taking care when brushing over his entry wound scar, and down his back. His smile broadened momentarily when Sherlock’s hands appreciatively lingered on his arse, and he giggled at a squeeze, nearly getting water up his nose in the process as he shuffled forward to escape the long-fingered, grabby hands.

“You git,” he teased as he turned around to rinse the suds off of his back, combing his fingers through his hair one final time to be sure he’d rinsed out all of the conditioner. “See you when you get out?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded with a smile.

“Go on,” he said, shooing John away, and John laughed as he opened the shower door to step out onto the bath mat that sat waiting on the floor.

He closed the door behind him and snatched a clean towel from a bar on the wall, wrapping himself in its fluffy warmth before hastily running it over his limbs and torso to dry himself. Once finished, he scrubbed the towel over his hair to ruffle and dry it as much as he could. It’d likely still be damp when he got to work, but he supposed it wouldn’t be the first time; and, at least, it would be clean. _And smelling of mint,_ he thought to himself with a small grin.

The shower turned off behind him as he was reaching for his dressing gown, and as he pulled it on, he looked back to watch Sherlock step out of the shower. His skin had taken on a lovely pink hue from the heat of the water, and he was lightly flushed all over, the ruddiness a little more prominent on his high cheekbones. John ogled openly, expression unguarded, and Sherlock took notice; the man glanced at him as he fetched a dry towel, a smug smirk coming to his lips, knowing exactly what John was thinking.

“God, you’re hot.” John vocalised his thoughts anyway. And he was glad he did, because Sherlock’s smile broadened where he faced the mirror, eyes rolling as he focused on drying himself.

“Go get dressed,” he chided halfheartedly, and John bit his lip.

“But the view is so nice,” he crooned, and let out a yelp when Sherlock swatted at him with the towel, both of them dissolving into giggles.

Still laughing, John left the steamy bathroom and made a bee-line to the sitting room to fetch his clean, folded clothes off of the sofa. He glanced at the door of the flat to ensure it was locked before he stripped off his dressing gown and pulled on his boxers. His jeans were next, and he wondered if Rachel would notice that he was wearing the same clothes he’d been in yesterday as he pulled his vest and jumper over his head. At least they were clean.

He was sitting down on the sofa wrestling his foot into one sock when Sherlock emerged in his blue dressing gown, hair sticking up every which way, still damp, a healthy flush still present in his cheeks. They exchanged a smile before John returned his attention to his socks.

“What’s on your agenda for today?” he asked conversationally as he pulled his stocking partway up his shin.

He heard Sherlock sigh softly from where he’d gone to stand by the window. “Might run to the Yard. Pesker Lestrade in person to give me something to do. He’s not answering my texts,” he murmured with a sour expression.

John hummed as he bent to put on his other sock.

“There’s something connecting the suicides,” Sherlock continued in a murmur.

“Huh?” John looked up, grabbing his shoe from where it’d been set neatly next to its twin on the floor. “The… those two suicides that had the same _method_ or whatever?” he asked. “Thought it was circumstantial.”

“It was,” Sherlock confirmed, and John heard a rustling of paper as well as Sherlock’s footsteps as he pulled on and laced up his shoe. His attention was derailed by the _fwap_ of a newspaper landing on the coffee table in front of him. He looked up.

“Third Suicide Victim Supports Serial Suicide Theory,” John said, brows furrowing as he read the headline underneath Sherlock’s pointing finger, a short article lining the side of the front page. He looked up. “There’s been a third?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed with a huff. “Same method of poisoning; ingesting a capsule with the _same_ poison. No signs of a struggle.” The man sighed, turning to pace across the floor and back. “There’s something connecting them. I just can’t think of _what._

John hummed, before he looked back down to pull on and lace his other trainer. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” he said, looking back up with a placating smile.

“Mm.” Sherlock turned again to head to the desk and open a laptop sitting on its surface, the glow of the screen lighting his face.

Having tied his shoes, John put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up before heading to the door to grab his jacket and pull it on. He patted his pockets, feeling for his mobile and wallet, before he stooped to pick up his messenger bag from where he’d put it when he first arrived at the flat the day before.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, hands falling to his sides as he looked across the room at where Sherlock was still hunched over his computer. “I’ll get going, then.”

“Wait.” Sherlock’s voice stopped him, and his eyebrows rose as he watched the other man dart into the kitchen. He heard a light jingling, brows quirking into a confused expression, before Sherlock emerged and held out his hand.

John extended his own to accept the gift - which turned out to be a small, brass key. He blinked at it, almost uncomprehending.

“Key to the flat,” Sherlock supplied, and John beamed.

“Oh. Brilliant,” he said, sliding it into his chest pocket and patting it to ensure its security. He looked back up, turning his smile on Sherlock, who was standing there with a pleased expression. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

The men stood in silence for a brief moment before John’s smile softened, and he leaned in, tilting his head back to kiss the brunette sweetly. He pulled away and savoured the look of bliss on Sherlock’s open face, the man’s eyes remaining closed for a moment longer before they slowly opened. “I’ll see you after work,” John said quietly, giving the man one last smile before beginning to turn towards the door...

But a look on Sherlock’s face out of the corner of his eye stopped him. The man looked almost crestfallen, even as he offered a small “see you” in response. John turned back to face Sherlock fully. The brunette didn’t move, only stared back, looking between John’s eyes, a hopeful look blossoming in his own silver irises.

Had he been expecting something else? Perhaps a heated snog before parting ways? The atmosphere between them suggested something entirely different, though, and John wracked his brain for something, anything he missed-

Oh.

_Oh._

He blinked rapidly as he gasped softly. “Oh.” The word was uttered on a breath.

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, the corner of his lips and one eyebrow raising in a mirthful smirk.

John just beamed, cheeks heating, and he bit his bottom lip as he looked between Sherlock’s eyes. _“Tell me again in the morning,”_ the echo of a deep baritone rang through his head.

“I love you.”

It was scary to say; of course it was. It always was, the first time. And this wasn’t the first time, not _really_ , but it was the first time that counted. He’d said it in looks he gave Sherlock, in the swipes of his tongue and the thrusts of his hips, in the brushes of his lips against Sherlock’s mouth and skin, and twice aloud while his inhibitions were lowered by alcohol. But this was the first time that really, _really_ counted.

He’d never fallen so hard and so fast before. He was hopeless, forever lost in the tumultuous sea of his unfathomable adoration with only this man, this incredible, _impossible_ man acting as his anchor. He would have been terrified, if it weren’t for the fact that he was absolutely _certain_ Sherlock felt it too. They were both in the same boat in those violently thrashing waters… except, no, the waters weren’t so violent when he and Sherlock were sharing the ship. No; in fact, the waters were clear. Still. Blue, and deep as the depths of John’s _love_ for this man. As the depths of their love for one other.

And Sherlock smiled, as bright as the shining sun in the clear blue sky that shone down upon them in their boat on the beautiful sea, making the waters glimmer radiantly. John could see the horizon in Sherlock’s eyes; it was crystal clear and limitless.

Never-ending.

“I love you, too.”

Sherlock’s words were a whisper that turned into a whirlwind inside John’s chest. He let out a breath, his own smile making his cheeks ache in the most pleasant way. “I’ll see you after work,” he said again, and this time when he turned, he wasn’t stopped by Sherlock, whose soft “bye” followed him out the door.

 

\--

 

John was in high spirits as he packed his laptop into its case and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. He bid Rachel farewell as he passed the receptionist’s desk on his way out of the clinic, and he greedily filled his lungs with the crisp, late-afternoon air as he stepped outside. For once in his life, he felt perfectly at-ease. The puzzle pieces of his chaotic life that had once seemed so far out of his reach were finally falling into place; he was working in a field he was growing to love, he was living in a perfectly lovely flat with the man he’d fallen madly in love with _who loved him back_ , in the middle of the city he’d been in love with all his life, Sherlock was going on nearly a month sober, out of the dismal chasm of detox and being a perfect pain in the arse once again, and John couldn’t be more happy. Everything was more vibrant; the colourful leaves on the autumn trees were breathtakingly beautiful, the greens of the grass appearing more lush and alive than usual, and the sun, God, the _sun_ , it was blindingly bright; and yet still, it couldn’t outshine the light inside John.

Butterflies fluttered in his chest and in his gut. _Honeymoon phase,_ he thought to himself with a grin as he made his way off campus to catch a cab. Normally, he’d be immensely put-off by the idea. But now, he basked in it.

 

\--

 

After paying the cab driver, John stepped out of the back seat onto the pavement and closed the door before fishing his key out of his breast pocket with a pleased smile. He let himself into the flat and closed the door behind him, locking it, before scaling the stairs. His steps were quick, wanting nothing more than to wrap Sherlock in a loving embrace and kiss the man’s stoic features until he was a giggling mess in his arms - but when he let himself into their flat and called out the man’s name, he was met with only still silence. His smile fell as he caught his breath from the hike up the stairs, and he closed the door slowly behind him.

“Sherlock?” he called out again, moving to drop his bag on the floor - but he did a double-take at the sight of several boxes lining the wall next to the door. He frowned as he picked up a sheet of paper that had been neatly lying atop the nearest one.

_Doctor Watson,_

_I have taken the liberty of having your possessions removed from your prior living space and relocated here. Rest assured that everything was handled with the utmost care, and with respect for your privacy. Your leasing arrangement has been settled, and outstanding debts have been forgiven. If you have any concerns regarding the state of any of your belongings, you may obtain my personal number from my brother._

_Regards,_

_MH_

John had to laugh at the absurdity of the letter, written in an elegant hand. “Christ’s sake,” he murmured as he set the letter back down. He’d worry about unpacking later.

He retrieved his phone from his pocket, ready to text Sherlock to ask where he was, when the sound of the door at the bottom of the stairs followed by light footsteps coming briskly up the stairs announced the man’s arrival. John turned to welcome Sherlock with a smile. “Hey, you.”

“Hello,” Sherlock chirped with a bright smile, leaning down to press a kiss to John’s cheek. John wondered if this was the effect the honeymoon phase was having on Sherlock, or if he’d forever remain this cheery. He sincerely hoped that the latter was the case; and he resolved to work for the rest of his life to maintain that cheeriness.

“How was work?” the man continued, stepping away to remove his coat.

“Oh, you know,” John mused as he removed his own. “Breakups. Exam stress. Traumatic relative deaths.”

Sherlock cast him a glance. “You seem strangely happy about such unfortunate circumstances.”

John gave a half shrug and a small smile. “Just happy to not be in said unfortunate circumstances. Tea?”

He made his way into the kitchen, finding an electric kettle and setting it up to heat water obtained from the sink as Sherlock flopped down in his chair with his mobile held in front of his face, thumbs flying over the keyboard on the screen.

“Anything interesting at the Yard?” John asked as he leaned in the doorway of the kitchen.

Sherlock gave a low hum. “No. Graham is insufferable.”

“Greg,” John deadpanned.

“Whatever.”

John shook his head and rolled his eyes fondly before turning and fetching cups and tea bags from their respective cupboards.

“Milk and sugar,” Sherlock called from the sitting room without John having to ask.

A short while later found John handing a mug of steaming tea to Sherlock before the doctor took his place in what had become his designated armchair. Sherlock was engrossed in his phone, and so John took the newspaper off of the table next to his chair and set it on his lap to peruse the latest news, skimming over the ‘serial suicide’ article briefly before turning the paper over to read about other things.

His feet found their way a bit further out in front of him than normal, and he smiled secretly down at the newsprint when he heard Sherlock’s shoes shift and felt the subsequent bumping of their feet in the shared space between their chairs. He glanced up to see Sherlock still engrossed in his phone, and so went back to his reading.

He had just stumbled across an interesting article regarding a robbery at a blood drive when Sherlock’s feet shifted abruptly, moving backwards as he sat up straight. “There’s been a fourth,” he murmured, almost breathless, and John looked up, a little dazed, from his paper.

“What?” he asked with a frown.

Sherlock didn’t respond, but instead stood and strode over to one of the windows, pulling the curtain aside and peeking out and down to the street below.

John tried again. “A fourth what?” He blinked once, twice, before it clicked into place. His brows leveled as he understood. “A fourth suicide.”

“Something’s different this time,” Sherlock mumbled, eyebrows furrowed, seemingly lost to the world. That was, until the sound of footsteps coming quickly up the stairs had him turning around to stare at the door.

John looked, too, and was thoroughly surprised to see none other than Greg Lestrade stepping through. Sherlock didn’t seem surprised at all.

“Where?” he asked plainly, the word quick, pointed.

Lestrade ignored him, looking around the room. “Nice place,” he commented, and his eyebrows rose as his gaze fell upon John, who was just sat in his chair, staring stupidly at him. “Oh. Hi, John,” he greeted.

“Hullo,” John responded, still a bit taken aback.

“Gavin,” Sherlock snapped.

“Greg,” the DI deadpanned, turning his head back to look at Sherlock.

“ _Whatever_ ,” Sherlock sighed. “Just--” he made a ‘go ahead’ motion with one hand.

Greg sighed. “Lauriston Gardens.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “But there’s something different this time. You wouldn’t come to fetch me if there wasn’t something _different._ ”

“Yeah. Well.” Greg’s lips formed a small smile. “You know how none of the victims left notes?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, this one did.” Greg looked thoroughly pleased. Sherlock looked as cool and calculated as ever; but as John looked between the two men, he could tell that Sherlock, inside, was brimming with excitement.

“So will you come?” Greg asked.

“Not in the police car. I’ll be right behind you.” Sherlock’s voice was casual, almost blasé.

Greg nodded. “Great.” He turned to leave, but not before giving John a small wave in farewell.

John was still stunned, but his attention was drawn back to Sherlock because, after Greg was down the stairs and out the front door, Sherlock actually _jumped_ in the air in unbridled glee, exclaiming _“Yes!”_ through clenched teeth as he victoriously spun in a circle.

“Oh! _Four_ serial suicides and now a _note._ Ah! It’s _Christmas_ , _”_ he said, and John was stuck between gawking at Sherlock’s sudden enthusiasm, and the fact that said enthusiasm was brought about by someone’s suicide - not to mention it being likened to a blessed fucking holiday.

“So you’re leaving then,” John said, trying his best (and failing) not to sound crestfallen; not that Sherlock noticed, as he watched the detective rummage around his desk for a leather-wrapped bundle and a pair of black, leather gloves.

“Duty calls,” the man breathed as he swept across the room, donning his coat. His feet carried him quickly back to his desk to stuff his things into his pockets, and he opened the door to leave, before doing a double-take in John’s direction, halting in his tracks. “What are you doing?” he asked incredulously, as though John had done something horrid.

John’s face twisted in dubious confusion, and looked down at his lap. “Um. Sitting?”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “Get up, get your jacket.”

“You- you want me to come with you?” John asked.

“Of course.” Sherlock looked confused. John smiled. “Why wouldn’t I want you with me?”

John shrugged modestly. “Might slow you down.”

“John,” Sherlock admonished, leaving the door for the moment and taking a step towards John instead. “You’ve been to war. Dealt with a lot of trauma.”

“Yes,” John confirmed with a small nod.

“Seen a lot of… violent deaths,” the brunette continued, stalking closer.

John stood, setting his tea aside, letting the newspaper fall forgotten to the floor. “Yes... yes.” He looked between Sherlock’s eyes, seeing the mischief there. The corner of his own lips quirked up in an almost-imperceptible grin as he played along. His voice softened, but stayed firm. “Enough for a lifetime.”

There was a long moment that stretched between them where John found himself growing eager with anticipation, like a spring coiling tighter, ready to bounce. Sherlock’s eyes were shining, and his voice was a low rumble that sent John’s stomach plummeting through the floorboards.

“Wanna see some more?”

John was _breathless_.

 _“God, yes.”_ And he meant it. God, _yes_ to _everything_ ; _yes_ to the dazzling smile that stretched Sherlock’s lips, _yes_ to the slam of the door of their shared flat, _yes_ to the chorus of their feet pounding hurriedly down the stairs, _yes_ to their laughter as they giggled like schoolchildren giddy with excitement over a shared secret…

 _Yes,_ to the sights of London acting as a backdrop for the masterpiece that was his partner in life and in crime.

 _Yes,_ to his new life; to him and the madman, Sherlock Holmes.

_END_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is: the end to this story. But at the same time, it's really just the beginning, isn't it?
> 
> I'd like to give my sincerest, heartfelt thanks to every single person who has given this work even a shred of their attention. I can't put into words how much I appreciate all of your support. Every hit, every kudos, every comment, has given me an unfathomable amount of joy and a sense of purpose I sometimes find myself searching for in the monotony of everyday life. This has been an incredible journey for me as a person and as a writer, however cliche that shit sounds. Thank you all so much, for giving me, and this fic, a chance, and for giving it and me so much love. I really can't thank you enough.
> 
> I'm going to start working on another story soon. I hope to improve my writing in doing so, and to do that, I would love another set of eyes; I already have one generous offer for a beta, and if anyone else would like to offer their skills as a beta or Brit-picker after seeing my egregious mistakes in this story (ha), don't hesitate to reach out. You can inbox me here, or find me on Twitter @bi_an83, or on Tumblr at minding-my-own-bismuth. Or if you just want to give me a follow to stay updated on future works, feel free to do so. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone. Much love, many thanks, and I'll see you next time. ;)


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